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fu..2ric^ d . --;~^' 







VOL. 128. 





7^ righi o/puNMinff T^aiulations of Artiekt in thit MagMine U rttntd. 



The Negroes of the South 1 

The Shadow of Ashltdyat. By the Aitthor op " East Lynnb" 

18, 147, 274, 395 

Sundown. By Astley H. Baldwin 36 

DioNYsius the Elder. By Sir Nathaniel 37 

Recent Progress in British Columbia and Vancouysr Island • . . 50 

Ascent of Monte Rosa in 1862. By a Private of the 38th Middlesex 

(Artists) 63 

Lord Stanhope's Miscellanies 75 

Granyille de Vigne. a Tale of the Day 79, 239 

The Ionian Islands 91 

A Curious Coincidence 108 

Early at the Dawning. By Mrs. Acton Tindal 110 

The Huguenots OF Geneva Ill 

The Primeval Forests of the Amazons 127 

Lady Jane Grey. By Sir Nathaniel 164 

Lord Hatherton. By Ctrus Redding 176 

The English Nobility .183 

The Federal Spy 196 

A Modern French Duel 21 1 

Albert Durer, With Something of Early Printing and Engraving .217 
The Horse and the Ass. From a Posthumous Foem by Heine. By 

Edgar A. Bowring, C.B 232 

Dawn of the Gospel in Geneva 234 

Revelations of the Guillotine 253 



Cabdinal Fleubt. By Sib Nathaniel 291 

The Queen and the Dying Soldieb. By Nicholas Michell . . . 298 

The Japanese " Floweey Land*' 300 

Stbathmobe ; OB, Weouoht by his own Hand. A 'Life Bomance. By 


An Abtist's Study in the Quabtieb Latin 339, 422 

Lftebabt and Political Becollections 348 

A**Fast"Pilobim 360 

The Polish Motheb. By Gybus Bedding 366 

The Modebn Babylon 368 

The Soubces of the Nile 379 

Sib William Wallace. By Sib Nathaniel 412 


BowBiNG, C.B 436 

The Confbdbeatb Justification. A Letteb to the Editob from 

Ctbus Redding 437 

Memoibs of Victob Hugo 474 

The Kingdom of Siam 486 



It is impossible to defend slavery as an institution. The ownership of 
a human being from birth until death, and the power of sale over his 
body, or of the transfer of a right in a fellow-creature's existence, are so 
abhorrent to every principle of humanity, and so opposed to the great 
basis of Christianity, that no argument in its favour will bear a moment's 
consideration. But since the institution does exist, and the opposition 
brought about by its existence has involved civil war, and has over- 
whelmed, in all probability for ever, the great principle by which the 
United States held together — the separate sovereignty of each state — it 
is well to know what that institution really is, in order to form, in the 
first place, a correct notion of what is the condition of the slave ; in the 
second, to understand the chief influences affecting the belligerent 
parties; and, thirdly, to be enabled to form an opinion as to the future 
downfal of the institution. 

It is quite certain that, carried away by a just prejudice against 
slavery, there is no state of society in the world that has been so grossly 
misrepresented and so grievously misunderstood as that which exists in 
the Southern States. Those writers who, during the last few years, have 
flooded the book mart with sensation tales of slavery, have, it has been 
justly remarked, injured the cause which they, no doubt, sincerely 
thought to serve. Horrible scenes have undeniably occurred in the Slave 
States, as in other countries; but let any upright reader judge whether it 
would be a fair representation of English society to collect from a year's, 
or even a week's, newspapers the terrible list of crimes and sufFerings, 
and, concentrating them in one volume, to send it forth to the worlds 
saying, " Such is England." 

We gladly avail ourselves, then, of the experiences of a lady who, as 
a governess, lived in the bosom of different families in different states in 
the South, and who was thrown into the mixed society of town, camp, 
and boarding-house during the trying times that preceded secession, and 
the still more stirring and eventful episodes that followed upon open hos« 
tilities. A residence in various homes of the Southern States, indeed, 
afforded the author — who writes under, we suppose, the pseudonym of 
Miss Sarah Jones — opportunities of becoming acquainted with traits of 
character and domestic manners which could never have met the eye of 
the mere wayfarer, and which at once rivet the attention, as conveying a 

* Life in the South; fVom the Commencement of the War. In Two Vols. 
Chapman and Hall. 1863. 

May — ^VOL. cxxYiii. no. dix. b 

2 The Negroes of the South, 

true picture, not only of the condition of the slave, but also of the social 
condition of the slaveholder, and, consequently, of the reaction of one 
upon the other. 

Our author's first home in the South was at Dr. W.'s, Forest Rill, a 
plantation in the neighbourhood of Fredericksburg, on the Rappahan- 
nock, and the family one of the F. F. V.s, or fine old Virginian families, 
who suddenly became transformed, on seceding from the North, into 
"brutes" and ** tyrants" in the eyes of their enemies. It was here she 
first became acquainted with the natural and graceful dignity of cha- 
racter and deportment, and with the simple and unostentatious kindness 
and hospitality of the descendants of the aid families' in Virginia, as also 
with the " uncles'* and " aunts" (for mister and mistress are titles never 
applied to negroes), and with the innumerable " Topsies " — their 
progeny. The negroes, growing up as they do in the saine family, call 
its members, however old, by their christian name. Even a grandfather 
is "old Master Harry, or Willy," and the ladies are always "Miss 
Molly," or " Miss Sue." They were Master Willy and Miss Sue when 
children, and marriage does not change them in the eyes of the old 
servants. The scene on arrival at this first home in the South is pecu- 
liarly characteristic : 

Several .little Topsies and Carlos came running down to the gate on seeing 
the carriage approach, the younger ones climbing upon it for a swing, and to 
peep in at the windows to greet "Mi* Cinta" with a grin ; setting off again for 
another run back to the house, where they all stood round the door with eyes 
and mouth agape to stare at the new comer. They are soon dispersed by an 
elderly negress, very black, and very ugly, but dressed with extreme neatness, 
even to the gay yellow turban which covered her wool with the exception of 
two stray looks on the temples, which were unmercifully braided into two 
stiff tails, and left to hang in imitation of ringlets. We enter a large hall wluch 
ran entirely through the house, opening into rooms on either side, and with a 
large open door opposite the entrance. The yellow turbaued dame is accosted 
as " Aunt Ailsey, who curtseys to me, and takes my parasol, &c., which she 
gives to one of the Topsies to carry up-stairs. The Doctor has already arrived 
before us, and meets us vrith another welcome to me, hoping I have enjoyed 
the ride to Forest Rill. Mrs. W. proposed to conduct me up to my chamber, 
whither we w^e followed by the " aunt" and several negro children, leaving 
Cinta screaming after one of the Topsies, who were all too intent on their obser- 
vations of the stranger to think of their youi^ mistress's claims on their atten- 
tion. "Aunt Ailsey" again drives them off, sending one for wood and another 
for water, and a third is to tell somebody to come and " build" a fire. Mrs. 
W. invites me to feel at home and ask for what 1 require, and appoints the 
eldest Topsy to be my especial waiting-maid. On leaving the room she said 
supper would soon be ready, and no doubt a cup of tea would prove very re- 
freshing. Immediately appears another negro woman, with three or four liuge 
logs of wood upon her head and a lighted stick in her hand, followed by Topsy 
No. 1, with a great basket of "chips," also poised without holding upon her 
head ; Topsy No. 2, with an apron full of " corn cobs," and Topsy No. 3, witii a 
pitcher or fresh water, dso on her head. The woman dropped a curtsey, 
with " jBWdy, missus ?" which salutation, not comprehending, I could only 
nod in return. She tumbled the logs on to the capacious hearth, and knelt down 
before it to arrange them upon the andirons, the two assistant Topsies squatting 
down on each side of her to get rid of their burdens, and then fix their great 
black eyes- aeain on me, as if they had no other business on earth to occupy 
them. The log fire, aided by the contents of basket and apron, soon sent its 
roaring flames and sparks half up the chimney, and lighted up the room quit© 

The Negroes of the South. 3 

pleasantly, for it was only the beginning of Aptril, and the evenings are the more 
chilly after the inid*day warmth of the sun in that latitude. Mrs. W. and 
Cinta reappeared to see if there was a good fire, and hope I had all I wished. 
They said the trunks would arrive in about an hour. The ladies expressed no 
surprise to see the invasion of negroes in my apartment, neither were tne Topsies 
at all abashed by their presence, and continued their undisturbed study oi my 
physiognomy ; but Aunt Ailsey's ingenuity was p^ut to the test to find errands 
to get rid of them, for tkey reappeared «o quickly, each time opening ^e 
door without rapping or ceremony, and resuming their pUces on each side of 
the fire. 

The eldest Topsy's name proved to be Flora, and as night came on^ 
this dark flower showing no^ns of departing, her new mistress ventured 
to observe that she had better go to bed. 

Missus done said I wasito sleep heah, ef you'd want me to.** 
Sleep here, child ! Where ?" 
I gits my blanket, ^an lies down afore de fire." 
** Oh no ! I do not want you, you may go." 

So she raised herself from before the fire, where she had been leisurely 
squatting, and departed, grinaiog as she went, and displaying two 
splendid rows of teeth. She stopped at the door to say, ^'Does ye 
please want any fin mo' p" and then curtseyed, adding, ''Good night, 



Next day, we have a visit to the garden and poultry-yard. When 
they sallied forth they were followed by three or four negro children, who 
ran towards them at the sight of '* Mi' Cinta." Miss Cinta patted the 
head of one she called " Jim," sayitig he was the youngest child and pet 
of Aunt Ailsey. Topsy No. 2, was found to be his elder sister Sally, 
Cinta's little waiting-maid, who followed with the keys of the hen-houses 
and food for chickens, while some younger woolly heads were toddling 
in the rear. A want of finish and untidiness about the yard and buildings, 
and that amid signs of wealth and abundant labour, for in every direction 
negroes were tol>e seen, not only men and women working in the fields, 
but children, whose busiiiess appeared to consist in waiting on the elder 
ones, otherwise in doing nothing, was one of the first, as it is the most 
constant, characteristic of slave labour. As they passed these people 
they greeted Miss Cinta thus, '* Oh, Mi' Cinta, how'dy ?" meant for 
" how do you do?" and the common salutation of both white and blaek 
throughout the South. Cinta greeted them all with a nod and smile, 
calling them by name, and stopping to speak to one or two to inquire 
after a child or parent, when they invariably offered their hand for a 

This, to any one who is familiar with the* treatment of the black in 
the Free States, or who has studied " Uncle Toms'* and " Topsies" in ihe 
pages or orations of the Beecher Stowes, will appear a startling amount of 
intimacy, and a great extent of consideration ; yet is it one of the inva- 
riable characteristics of the relations between the slaveholder and his 
slave. When the doctor spoke of his slaves, he did net so designate them 
— he called them ''his people." They, on their side, addressed their 
master thus : '* Massa Fred, hab you done got me dem nmls to fix dat 
ar fence ?" 

^' Massa Fred, I wants you to git me a new saw nex time you goes to 
Uchmun', dis eah wone do nohow." 


4 The Negroes of the South, 

'' Why, Caesar, ivhat have you done to wear it out so quickly?*' 

*^ Whew ! Massa Fred.'' And some excuse would follow, as if to per- 
suade the *'niassa" of his unreasonableness. Many of these replies and 
arguments sounded to the new comer very much like impudence, but the 
doctor did not apjpiear to regard them as such, and surprised our author 
by the calmness with which he tolerated the seeming impertinences. She 
could not *' realise" that all these leisurely, slouching, argumentative 
negroes were slaves^ , nor that the easy-tempered, courteous gentleman 
who was addressed by them could be a slaveholder. A word, however, 
sufficed to break the spell. They were passing a pretty-looking mulatto 
girl in field costume, who curtseyed with a smiling, trustful look, and the 
usual " How'dy. Mi' Cinta." 

" That's Ros^a," said Cinta« " Grandpa ^ar^ her and her two sisters 
to me whea I was ten years old, and I am going to take Rosa into the 
house to have her taught different kinds of needlework,, and be my own 

The words *^ gave her to me" fell upon sensitive ears, whilst equally 
discerning eyes also saw that Rosa looked proud and happy at the idea of 
her promisea promotion. 

All these Uncle Toms, Aunt Ailseys, and Topsies had their cabins, 
each detached, having a pigsty and hen-house, and patches or gardens, 
and some with rough por^es, with vines or flowers creeping over them ; 
but otherwise the spaces were vacant, tram^^ed, or littered with rubbish. 
The young ^children were left in the care of ^oiie or two elder ones, or an 
old negresaat her spitming- wheel. During this first walk a great deal 
of shaicing of hands had to' be gone through, thenegrOes offering the new 
comer a welcome, sis if, she remarked, it were as much their business as 
their master's to make her feel at home^ but possibly also equally to avail 
themselves of a privilege granted to them. 

Our author returned tocher home, after this first walk, with ''an 
immense 4rcad- off her mind" thht no '^ very harrowing scenes" were 
likely to -endanger her position in the elaveKolder's family. 

Owing to the' extent of farma or plantati6ns, some estates being from 
three hundred to three thousand or more acres, neighbours in Virginia 
are few and far between; yet the greatest amount of sodability prevails, 
and distance is scarcely regarded in making visits, and all the families 
are described as distinguished by the same mild, courteous, and cordial 
manners that characterised the W.s. • The manners of the negroes upon 
these visits were also<ju8t the same everywhere. Thus, at Oakfield — 
Colonel Harry 'W., the doctor's brother's — the hall door is opened by an 
old white-headed but very black negro, iron-black by contrast with his 
silvery wool : 

" Why, Mis' 'Liza" — addressing Mrs. W. — "ye's quite a stranger," 
shaking hands with the lady. ..^' An' how's you, Mis' Cinta?" who 
also shook hands. " An' how'4 Massa Fred ?" 

'' Quite well, Uncle Cassius; how are you?" 

" Well, I thank'ee, marm. An' he's ye come to stop wid us now, Mis* 
Cinta? Ye han't been heah dis long time. An' how be you, mistis ?" 
continued the '* Uncle," with a deferential bow to Miss Jones, followed by 
the shake of a hand, which that delicate person declares to have felt very 
much like iron. Uncle Cassius was attended by a little boy, of a pale 

The Negroes of the Sout/i. 5 

complexion, silky black hair, and beautiful eyes and teeth, so pretty and 
genteel that it was difficult to know how to accost him. This old 
*' Uncle** thus narrated his story at an aflter-period : 

** I b'longM to ole Massa Harry ebber sin* he was married," began Uncle 
Cassius, alluding to the colonel's father. " He an* me was jes* about of an 
age, 'n' I tended him all his life, an' when he married AGss Molly, my ole 
massa (the colonePs grandfather) gie'd me to him. I allers 'tended to him 
when he was a boy, an' went out hunting and shooting wid him in vacations ; 
'n' I trabbled wid him all over de l^orf, an' down to New OrleenSy an' 
wharebber Massa Harry went he allers took me. Den he married, an' my ole 
massa gave me to him *long wid my wife an' &mily, an' some o' th' others dat 
b'longed to db heah estate, all to young Massa Harry ; lesewise he teas young 
Massa Harry a' dat time. So he took me into de house, an' my wife. Miss 
Molly took ker into de house, an' all our children was brihged up in de house 
to be house-servants too, till dey married. Dat ar leetle yallow boy in de 
dining-room now, he's my gran'son ; his mnvver was my younges' daughter, 
an' she married a servant what blonged to old Capp'n rlanter over to Caro- 
line (county) ; so de capp^n he bought her, an' she went and libbed 'long'd 
her husband over thar. Den I outlib ole Massa Harry an' Miss Molly too, 
an' I outlib my wife, but young Massa Harry (the colonel) he's boun' to take 
care o' me, an' he icill too; an' I lib an' die on dis heah place whar I 
b'longs to." 

It is from the circumstance of negroes growing up in a fiimily in this 
manner that the custom has arisen of calling all its members, however 
old, by their christian names. And upon these visits there were so many 
old family '* uncles*' and " aunts,'* who in their turns presented their 
ebony palms to the stranger, that she confesses her philanthropy was 
sorely tried by this perpetual shaking of hands. The short-^somings of 
negroes are, however, so numerous, that they are incessantly pressing 
upon those placed in contact with them. Our author had not been long 
settled before Flora was detected unlocking and exploring the contents 
of her boxes. To the question, '* What are you doing with my things?** 
all the answer that could be obtained was, ** Do* want t* 'rouble an' yer 
things.** And even Aunt Ailsey took the sulky girPs part. '* She didn*t 
want to trouble the things, she jes' wanted to look at *em ; she wouldn*t 
trouble 'em nohow." This promising young negress expressed a wish to 
learn to read. This was simply because she preferred sitting by the fire 
than fetching wood and water : she never got beyond ba, be, hi. In 
almost every family you meet with an Uncle Cassius or Aunt Ailsey, and 
sundry little Jims and Nellies, the children of old house«servants and 
favourite negroes, who are, consequently, much indulged, and sometimes 
very troublesome : 

Sometimes one would be tempted to wonder how these young negroes ever 
grow up with notions of obedience and respect towards their masters, as so 
great a want of discipline and good training is observable. But a natural re- 
verence and awe of ^^ white folk" keep Ihem in check as they come to ^rears of 
discretion, strengthened by a devotion to their owners which seems instinc- 
tive, an affection and devotion which no others than their owners and their 
owner's family are ever lucky enough to share. Negro servants will wait upon 
visitors very well until the novelty has worn off; but they only continue to 
do so from compulsion ; they will hover about strangers from curiosity, but 
their service is dictated by quite a different feeling from that which actuates 
the same towards their masters. Perhaps some share of fear is blended with 

6 The NegTo$$ of t/ie South. 

their obedience, but this is a necessary influence upon an unreflecting nature. 
All this I soon discovered in the neglect of various matters in Flora's work. 
The same thing was daily recurring; but to say, "Be sure to do this every 
day," is as useless as hopeless. They must be told at the time and every time 
continually. It by no means follows that a prompt obedience is always ren- 
dered to tiieir true masters and mistresses. Far from it. You now and then 
find old and trusty 'servants like Casaius and Ailsey, who do not require con- 
stantly watching^ but old or young, no idle dunce was ever so ready to 
<« shirk " his task as the genus n^ro ; and no hypochondriac ever so ready to 
discover grievances and to imagine maladies as these poor timid slaves. 

A capacious medicine-closet is an inseparable part of a Southern esta- 
blishment, and the master will get up any time of day and night to go 
and tend upon his wayward black helps : not a word of complaint at the 
disturbance and troitble of going half a mile off in the middle of the 
night, and often for some trifling ailment. ** It is well," our author re- 
marks, " that, either by nature or education, the Virginians are of so easy 
and tranquil a mood, for they would otherwise enjoy no peace in their 
lives, with their lazy, unreflecting, child-like servants, the negroes.'* 

Mrs. W.'s sister had proved a very intelligent friend during her stay at 
Forest RiU. Her home was in the State of Mississippi, and from her I 
learned a great many particulars as to the management of slaves in the more 
Southern States. She did not pretend to disguise the fact, that during the 
cotton and sugar harvests they perform extra labour, but it is usually followed 
by extra indulgences when the harvest is over. There are strict regulations 
for enforcing cleanliness ; and persons are kept, on large plantations, for the 
express purpose of visiting the cabins, which undergo a regular purifying 
every Saturday, and looking after the health of the negroes. She related 
some instances of the easily transferred afiisctions of negroes, which, coming 
from so truthful a source, aflbrd strong proof that a vast amount of morbid 
sympathy is wasted upon their imposed family separations. The following 
case happened in her own brother^s family. 

Mr. A had a negro servant whose wife lived on the adjoining plantation, 
the two slaves being in the habit of meeting constantly. When they had been 
married several years, the woman^s master being about to seU his Mississippi 
property, and move to Missouri with all his family and servants, offered to 
sell Lydia to Mr. A. in order that she might not be separated from her hus- 
band. Mr. A. had already as many servants as he desired, and declined to 
buy her, but gave his own servant Sico permission to go to Missouri with his 
wife. Sico, in spite of the connubial tie, objected to leave his master. He 
considered a good deal, and looked very grave. " Massa Harry, Pse boun^ 
not to lebe you, sah ! I likes her mightily, an* I be right smart sorry she be 
a goin*, but I likes dis heah place too. If my wife^s got to ^, she'll have to. 
Massa Harry, I can^t lebe you an' Miss laza, and all de childern.*' Mr. A, 
expostulated, and endeavoured to dissuade Sico from giving up his wife so 
easily. " Massa Harry, I reckon she better go wid Massa Arthur, she's a 
right good-looking nigger anvway, an* she'll soon find annuvver man to hab 
her, an' dis nigger couldn't lebe you anyhow. Dis vem* pkoe is my home, an* 
I don' want any uvver." So Sico bein^ inexorable, his master gave him a 
holiday, with permission to accompany his wife as far as Memphis, in order to 
enjoy her soaety to the last, and make an afiectionate adieu. On his way 
home, he passed the night at Dr. C.'s, where he had acquaintances among the 
servants. About a week after his return, he told his master he had seen a 
'* right pretty yaller gal" up at Dr. C.'s, and he would like to marry her, with 
his permission. 

" What 1 Sico, so soon forget your wife ?" 

^ Ah, well, Massa Harry, it*s no use to 'grebe over spilt milk,' what's done 

Tk$ Nefraes (fihe JSoiUh. 7 

caa^t be undone. I see ctid joung *ooman as I was a comin^ kome; an' I 
courted her, an' tole her Vd come nex' week to marrj her, if you'd no 'hjeo- 
tion, and so she's a 'speetin' on me." 

Mr. A. knowing the damsel in question to be a desirable match, and know- 
ing abo that his refusal might result in worse evils, gave his permission ; so 
in one week from the tender parting, Sico took another holiday ; but this time 
on a wedding trip. In a few months he received tidings that his first wife, 
aetang on the same philosophic principles, had also solaced herself with an- 
other helpmeet. 

It will be observed that in both cases the wives lived apart from their 
husbands, or it might be inquired how, if Mr. A. could not afford room 
for Lydia No. 1, he should allow Sico to contract marriage with Lydia 
No. 2. The neg^ is not, however, always so insensible to the evils of a 
forced separation. Here is an instance to the contrary, which occurred 
at a bo:u*ding>house at Richmond : 

One day Mrs. Smith's favourite servant Pete, the husband of Charlotte, 
whom the young ladies had pronounced such a *' perfect gentleman/' was per- 
forming a little job of carpentering in my room. His manners and appear- 
ance, though quite negro-ish, were undoubtedly those of a superior rank ; a 
thoig one often perceived in house-servants, which may be accounted for in 
their strong power of imitation, and from being in contact with well-bred 
people all their lives. This man, *^ Uncle Pete,'' never presumed on these 
thii^gs, even if he were aware of his superior address. It was a gracefulness 
and polish of demeanour, blended with obsequiousness and humility, that was 
almost painful to contemplate ; and his mind partook of the same refinement. 
I was asking him about his children, the three pretty little mulattoes who 
were often in the house, and always clean and well dressed. This touched a 
tender chord in the father's heart, and I repeat his words, not to expatiate 
upon the ^^ cmel separations" so commonly censured, but to declare to my 
readers that this was the only case I met with during my whole residence in 
the South where I heard a negro speak so feelinglv on the subject. Their 
wounds are generally but transient smarts, and quickly healed. 

** Oh ! Mistress Jones, we can none of us tell when our turn will come. I 
was sold away from my father when I was so young that I shouldn't know 
him now if I was to meet him. That's a mighty hard thing to tlunk of. And 
my brother, he went to another part, an' I hann't never seen him since ; and 
we don't know whose turn may come next." 

I asked him how many brothers and sisters he had, and spoke of Charlotte; 
and then turned and asked Frances how old she was. 

Pete said, " SAe don't know how old she is." 

"Why so?" 

" ^Cause she's never been taught. How can she know, when she's never 
learnt anything, never had no eddication, and no one to tell her anything? 
Her mother knows, tho', maybe, Miss Jones, and she's got a sister older than 
she is, and she*s only sixteen, so this'n can't be as old as that." 

I did not permit m}'self to encourage Pete in this desponding mood, but the 
fountain of his thoughts was loosened, and he continued : " If I'd had my 
will I'd a gone to Liberia ten years ago. We can none of us tell when our 
turn will come, and maybe I'll lose my children as my father lost me." 

It was while the author was at Richmond that secession became a 
*' hit accompli," and that hostilities commenced. The confidence of the 
Yankees in being able to bring the South to submission with scarcely an 
effort, according to the author, who had many Mends in the North, and 
many means of acquiring good information, was one of the chief causes 
of tibe war; wliile the erroneous views entertained in England of the 

8 The Negroes of the South. 

real condition of the ^' domestic institution " in the South, previous to 
Bussell's tour through the Southern States, led to as many vexatious 
mistakes in politics. The dependence of the Southerners on the recog- 
nition of England and the breaking of the blockade, led to great relaxa- 
tion on their part in their preparations for war and for self-sustenance. 
There is no doubt that our government has by the adoption of such 
policy been wise for the time, it is still questionable if it will prove so for 
the future. To have had a positive ally in the South would, perhaps, 
when the turn of Canada comes, have been found to have been of more 
avail than to have at the end of the war, wliichever way it goes, no ally 
at all on the continent of America. The price of that alliance might 
for a moment have been fearful to contemplate, but great nations should 
be prepared for great emergencies. Neutrality, which is at once wisdom 
and justice on the continent of Europe, is scarcely so where we have our- 
selves such interests at stake as a famishing population and a broken- 
down trade ; with the north-east provinces, Canada, British Columbia, 
the West Indies, and other important possessions, all as it were in 

Our author's next place of residence was at a Mr. Queuce's, a Baptist 
minister, dwelling at Milbank, in Caroline county. Baptists were not in 
favour with ^' Miss Jones," and Mr. Quence was not the best specimen 
of his class, so she was not quite as happy as she had been at the W.s, 
yet had she nothing to complain of in the way of kind, hospitable, 
courteous, and even generous treatment. ** Miss Jones," a young person 
of decidedly good education and excellent abilities, and whom we espe- 
cially sympathise with in her ardent love of nature and her exquisite 
appreciation of the goodness of all G-od's works, is manifestly one of a 
class most difficult to please. Her yearnings for letters, for change of 
circumstances, and during the blockade for extricating herself from every 
new position she became placed in, although, save a sad attack of sick- 
ness in Florida, and some privations from the blockade, everything that 
could be desired in a pecuniary point of view, as well as in respect to 
the most kind and considerate treatment, become at times very trying 
to the reader. There were at Milbank the usual '' aunts," and " uncles," 
and troublesome '* Topsies," but not, however, either so tidy, obliging, 
or numerous as at Forest Rill : 

Our pleasantest walk at Milbank was down to a mill from which the place 
was named. A beautiful piece of water lay in a picturesque hollow, leading 
down to which a winding road opened suddenly upon the mill itself, and a 
very neat, pretty cabin, occupied by Uncle Junius, the miller, and Aunt Ony, 
his wife. Our Baptist minister combined the business of farmer and miller 
with his pastoral duties. He employed an overseer to manage bis farm, but 
kept a faithful surveillance over his servants and profits. Uncle Junius came 
to the house every evening resularly, just as we had assembled in the parlour 
for family worship ; and opening the door and inserting bis grey and yellow 
head (nothing but the head was ever visible), summed up the business of the 
day, which his master duly entered upon a book : '^ Muster Brown, two bushel 
— Com. Muster Black, five bushel—Wheat. Muster Green, one sack — Flour. 
Miss Molly White, three bushel— Com." These entries answered the double 
piu*pose of a check upon the products of the farm, and the amount of Junius's 
daify labour. Sometimes the report was varied by a message from somebody 
concerning an order on the miller, or some requisite repairs, which afler 

Z&e Negroes of the South. 9 

being made kqpwn, a surly *'Go now,** was followed bj the retreat of tbe 
grey head, and the closing of the door. Uncle Junius was so fair^ or rather 
«« yellow," besides being ^uite good-looking, as to be easily mistaken for a 
white man. He was an intelligent and trustworthy negro, and, I used to 
think, deserving of a little more urbanity and sympathy than that gruff " GU> 
now'* testified. It did not seem a very likely method of securing the affection 
of the servant, but I never discovered that Junius^ felt sensitive on the subject. 
Mrs. Quence did not ever turn her head and eyes from the contemplation of 
the blazing pine stems, nor seem at all conscious whether Junius's head was 
admitting the cold draught or not. Perhaps she pursued the same course as 
the Misses Smith and their ** first circles did, never to take any notice of 
the servants ; but I had seen many other people whom I should have placed 
rather in front of these *^ first circles/' who always gave a kind and encou- 
raging " How*dy*' to the negroes, particularly the out-door servants, who 
were not so often visible at the house. 

All slaveholders are not like the W.s — Shelbys in the country — and 
even at Mr. Quence's some new features in 'the *' institution" presented 
themselves to an inquiring observer. Here are the results of a little 
conversation with Aunt Ony : 

Little Molly I knew, and her son Pinto, also, whose chief business was to 
drive the waggons and attend to the stables. This youth was by a former 
marriage, and I asked Ony if she had any more children. 

** Oh yes, mistis ; Rose, what you see a milkin^ de cows t'other night, she's 
my darter." 

*' Is she married ?" 

" No, mistis, she ain't married, but she's got three children tho\" 

" Is her husband dead ?" 

'^No'm, she ain't 'zactly had no husband. Phil, he dat 'tends de tan-yard 
down tbar, her children b'longs to Am." 

" But that's not right, Aunt Ony. Does Amelia (Phil's wife) know about 

" Ye'es, mistis ; I tell ye she an' Rose cits to quarrellin' mightily when 
they meet. Rose 'd have Phil any day, an' Phil 'd have her, but Aunt Mealy 
won't give him up." 

" No, of course not — it would not be right ; he's her husband." 

"No, mistis, 'tis Twt right; I 'clar I don't think it is right. Do you, 

mam ?" 

"No, Aunt Ony, it is a great pity that such things happen. What do Mr. 
and Mrs. Quence say to such thmgs?" 

" Oh, dey giv 'm a good talkin' to, both on 'em. But Phil he won't allow 
he's wrong. He'd marry Rose if Mealy 'd let him, but she ain't willin' to give 
him up." 

" Rose and Pinto are not at all alike ; I should not have taken them for 
brother and sister." 

" No, mistis, my first husband was a merlatter man, pretty nigh white, an' 
my second husban'was mighty black — whew! rale black nigger; den Junius, 
he's a yaller man agin'." 

" What ! you have been married three times? You are quite lucky, Aunt 
Ony, to have two handsome men, nearly white, too !" 

" Eh— eh— eh-e-e-e," laughed Aunt Ony. ** Ye-e-e-s, mistis, I gits 'em, 
I know how to git 'em." 

" Indeed ! and how is that ?" 

" I 'haves myself like a lady, den I gits 'em. I don't do like some o' dem 
nigger gals. I aUis 'haves myself jes right. DaiPa the way I gits 'em." 

Returning to Richmond, the following interesting conversation ensued 
at the boarding-house : 

10 The Negroes of the South. 

" What do you think of our domestic iDstitutioiis bj tiik time, Miss Jones f ** 
said old Mr. Tykr, at the dinner-table. 

**! wish our own working classes were as well provided for and protected 
88 your slayes, Mr. Tyler. It is almost provoking to witness their grinnins 
faoes and light^earted indifferenoe at tfaw season of anxiety and alarm, which 
is causing so much tufiering to the white class.** 

'^^ Yes, madam, they are the last to suffer, «h(P8ys. Look here/* handing 
me a slip of newspaper, " almost daily we read of these things/' 

The paragraph Mitated that "another family of free negroes, at Charleston, 
had applied to be sold into slavery in order to avoid the hardships consequent 
on the panic, and depression in business." 

*' They know that they are sure of a home, anid plenty to eat, with a master 
to protect them," continued Mr. Tyler. 

To judge by an anecdote related by the Baptist minister, the negroes 
were afnud of their would-be protectors, the Yankees — at all events, at 
the commencement of hostilities. A Mr. Talbot had to hurry away from 
his plantation to join his regiment. Before starting, he hurriedly as- 
sembled his servants together, and addressed them in the following 
words : 

" Now, my people, I must go and help to drive away these Yankees, who 
are coming here to rob us, and to destroy our houses, and perhaps to kill us, 
or carry us off. But they are good friends of yours, so you need not be at all 
afraid. The Yankees are very kind to negroes, and will do you no harm at 
all. If they come here while I am gone, and want you to go with them, you 
can go if you like, any of you ; because I cannot take you all with me, and 
perhaps they will be able to take better care of you than I shall, if 
they burn my house down, for we have no home in Bichmond, and no 
other plantation to live on. So you must stay here and take care of the 
place, and do the best you can until I come back." Captain Talbot was 
absent several days, and on his return found the place just as he had left it. 
The house was locked up, biit eve^thing wore the appearance of order, only 
not a creature was to be seen. I^ walked all over the farm, and not a soul 
could be found. He felt quite sure that all the negroes had not run away, 
although it was possible some fbw might have done so. Most of the cabins 
were locked up, and the dogs were chained to their kennels, yelping and 
whining with hunger. He shouted, and whistled, and was proceeding to some 
more distant cabins, when he perceived a negro peeping from behind a tree 
on the outskirts of the woods. The man perceiving his master ran forward, 
exclaiming " Halloo, mast'r, here's I." 

" Why, Jim, what are you doing there ? Where are all the people ?" 

" Dem's in de woods, mast'r." 

*' What are they all doine; there ?" 

" Oh, massa, massa, we'd uke to have starved, we darn't put our heads out 
of dem woods ; fear*d de Yankees 'd cotch us." 

" Why, I told you the Yankees wouldn't hurtyow, didn't I ?" 

** Yes, massa ; but we couldn't 'suade de wimmin to stay when you was a 
gone ; said they afeard Yankees cotch *em." 

Every man, woman, and child had fled to the woods to hide, and there 
had remained until the return of the master. There was no persuading the 
people, no arguing with them ; the master was gone, and all self-dependence 
vanished with him. 

It had become plain from the outset that it was not sympathy with 
the negro, but the loss of the best states of the cindevant Union, that 
was galling and- goading on the North to this fearful war. One could 

Tlie Negroes of the SoutA. 11 

not, the author says, be blind to the ardour which fired the Southerners 
to fight for their beloved country with their life's blood : 

Such courage and fortitude compelled one's admiration. During the 
previous winter had not thousands of white people been supported by cha- 
ritable contributions in all the large towns of the South, while the slaves 
were untouched by public calamities? Did we not read at that very time of 
our own English poor being limited in their labours on account of tl^ pro- 
bability of reduced importations of cotton ? While the so-called slaves weie 
fktteningon ^od food, and parading to their Sunday meetings, in such an 
ustonishing display of flounce^ feathers, and shirt coUarSj that it was almost 
impossible to recognise the ^' Aunte" and '^ Uncles^' of one's every-day a/O" 
quaintance, wore not the legislators of my own honoured En gla nd expe» 
nmentalising on haiff Utile it was possible for a man to live vpon ? What oould 
one argue when these comparisons were made between free labour in our 
boasted England, and '* slavery with plenty?*' ''Your terms of labour are 
to get as much as possible out of a man, for the least possible payment ; you 
pay him for what he does, and if he is sick or maimed his payment ceases* 
uus capital taxes labour to the utmost : with us ^v^\\^ protects labour. The 
most selnsh man would argue thus : this is my labourer ; he is sick ; I lose 
his assistance ; send for a doctor to cure him quickly ; he is valuable to me. 
Selfishness alone secures aid to the enfeebled slave. But we have other ties^ 
and stronger ones in caring for our own, * Slave' is a mere political term, and 
while you engage a labourer by an hour, a day, or a year, and pay hun so 
long as he is useful to you, we engage our people for life, and support them 
when they are no longer useful to us. Our servants enjoy more privileges 
and indulgences than any other labouring class in the world.*' 

^'Doubts and fears'* having at length invalided the author, it was by 
mutual agreement that she lefit the Quences onoe more for Richmond^ 
and where the impossibility of getting out of the country entailed a trip 
to Yorktown and the camps — the narrative of which constitutes one of 
the most interesting chapters in the work — and ultimately the entering 
upon a new engagement at Warrenton College. Nothing could be 
more agreeable: than the sojourn at this latter place, notwithstanding the 
privations entailed by^ the war. Professors, ladies, and pupils were all 
alike courteous and kind, there was very little work, and offers were made 
of an increase of salary to induce our author to stay, but the temptation 
of better society in the family of the Governor of Florida was too gi*eat, 
and change of quarters once more ensued. 

The Miltons, a rather numerous progeny, were as smiling, amiable, 
and obliging as. were all other Southerners, but the talents, manners, dis«> 
position, and character of this pretty family were, we are told, wholly un- 
trained and undeveloped. They and their negroes were in some respects 
of congenial temperaments : 

For a time I laboured hard to establish some system of order and tidiness, 
but in spite of blockade and scarcity, torn, worn, scribbled books, broken 
slates and lost pencils were of every-day occurrence. A great long row of 
books that 1 had arranged on the old piano, was one morning missing 
entirely ; no one knew what had become of them, no one had touched them 
or seoi them, but. they were gone ! 

" 1 beta dollar that Jim" (a negro boy) "has carried them off into the 
woods," said Johnny. 

«* Why should he do that ?" 

^' Oh, just for mischief. I left my violin here one evening, and the next 
day it was gone^ A long; time afterwards, when I was hunting in the woods, I 

12 The Negroes of the South. 

found it smashed up under the trees ; and I know Jim broke it up, just for 
mischief." Thus the row of books vanished, their loss borne amiably and 
unconcernedly, without an effort to recover them. 

The author's negress attendant — Jane — is described as being uglier 
and more stupid than even Barnes of Milbank. Never, she declares, did 
she see such a hideous picture of sullen, dogged stupidity. She had never 
yet witnessed the infliction of corporeal punishment on the negroes of the 
South ; but the sullen obstinacy of this Jane, and of another Arcadian 
negress with the ill-merited name of Flora, tried her temper so much that 
she was tempted to try the effects of summary chastisement; with what 
beneficial results we must leave her to relate in her own words : 

She never would bring in firewood before a storm came on, and after 
keeping one waiting shivering in the sudden change of temperature, she 
invariably brought m three wet, straight logs, which she lay in a compact 
bundle on the andirons, with a few ignited pine-wood chips, spread half a 
foot below on the bricks. Of course, by the time she got down stairs the 
fire was out, and call as I might I could not induce her to bring any more. 
One of the young ladies, or her mistress, on hearing my voice, made her come 
back, which she never would do at my summons. Time after time I showed 
her how to lay the logs loosely, with the pine chips between them ; but no, 
always just tiie same three wet, straight pieces compactly placed. Mrs. 
Milton thanked me more for doing my own scolding, than for troubling her 
to do it, and had even said, " Why don't you cuff her, Miss Jones ?" I ** cuff" 
a negro I 

The incorrigible chattel was, however, so very aggravating and stubborn 
one day about those three wet, straight, unignitable logs, while she persisted 
in burning up all the little dry pieces of pine-wood, without arriving any 
nearer at a fire, that I thought I would try the effect of cufiing, and I got 
my hand quite ready, doubled my fist up, and began to study where the 
*'cuff " could be applied most effectually. Then I moved a little so as to 
sam very straight, and while she remained sprawling there, playing with the 
chips in a most provoking manner, I gave her two great blows, just as hard 
as ever I could, upon her shoulder. I had so little physical strength iust 
then that the exertion put me dreadfully out of breath, and I do not believe 
she would have known what touched her, if she had not turned round and 
caught sight of my hand still doubled up. It seemed to dawn upon her mind 
that she had been struck, and getting up and fixing her black eyes on me 
with a terrible scowl, holding up her arm, as if to defend herself from a 

Eugilist, she growled out in her underground voice, ^^My missus never 
ooped (whipped) nieJ'* Of the two, I was by far the more terrified, and 
the more injured ; but still kept my eyes on her as one would on a wild 
animal. I did not know whether she was going to strike me, and she cer- 
tainly thought I was goin^ to renew the ^* cuffing," the first having been 
scarcely perceptible ; but it was much too fatiguing a process, and I said, 
" Why don't you do right without obliging me to do so?" 

" My missus never hooped nue-e-e^^ was repeated, with the eyes still frown- 
ing at me. 

The result was that my " cuffing " was wholly ineffectual. The negro was 
more dogged, stolid, and stubborn than ever ; and 1 found that it would be 
best to let her alone until she had quite forgotten the insult offered her, and 
then to seize the first opportunity of healing the wound, and henceforth try 
to '* overcome evil with good." 

That girl, in spite of her temper, respected herself, and was really unhappy, 
from loneliness and want of sympathy. 

Some time afterwards, when very warm weather had brought on the 
summer tornadoes, my second case of corporeal dbcipline occurred. 

The Negroes of the South. 13 

Little Jeff's nurse. Flora, was one of the most troublesome, impudent 
negro specimens I ever met with. It was pleasant enough to have Jen Davis 
(the baby) with Flora in my room — a beautiful apartment, with a piazza 
opening from it, all to myself; and there were many kinds of toys to entice 
little Jeff, which Flora scattered all over the floor, where Jeff crawled about 
to play with them. 

When the room was completely covered, until there was not a stepping 
place left, and Flora felt inclined for a change, she had a plan of exclaiming 
suddenly, *^ Missus calls ;*' and snatching up the child, quick as an arrow 
away she darted, in spite of my calling and screaming, leaving every scrap on 
the floor for me to pick up. 

The next time she came, pretending Jeff wanted very much to come and 
see me (intelligent baby of six months t)ld !)» she promised to put away the 
toys if I would allow them to be on the floor for Jeff. Perhaps she would 
collect one or two, and then contrive an excuse to run off with the baby, 
saying she would be ** back directly," and that was the last of her. 

One sultry afternoon, I was sitting by the door opening upon the piazza, 
opposite the room door, and between two open windows. Suddenly a 
summer tornado came on, and before I had time to collect my brushes — for I 
was copying a flower — the curtains were flapping, one chair was blown half 
across the room, the little table at which I sat would have been upset by the 
ffale had I not leant heavily upon it, and my papers were whirling like 
feathers about the floor. 

Flora was in the hall outside, and I called to her to come auickly to shut 
the windows, while I held the table, and kept my arms over the things upon 
it. Flora came as leisurely as a person walkmg in her sleep. ** Quick, 
Flora ! shut the door I" She was not quick by any means, and gave the door 
a little push, the wind instantlv dashing it open as if to tear it off its hinges. 

" Shut it, Flora !" (another little push). " Shut it ^rmly-^latch it I" No, 
she would not ; and I was pinned to the table, to keep paint-box, glasses, 
flowers, and papers together. 

About the fourth or fifth time of trying, she latched the door, and then 
advanced in the same slow, impudent manner, staring about her without an 
effort to close the window, which, by this time had admitted the rain and 
hail two or three yards into the room, in a large pool, with everything satu- 
rated near it. The door once secured, the current of air was checked, and 
my hands released. As the ^^ she imp of darkness'' sauntered past me to 
stare at what was on the table, instead of going directly to dose the window, 
I gave her a tremendous (to me) slap on the side of her head, and said, 
" Quick ! shut the window." 

" Oh, laws-a-me. Miss Jones ! see what mighty bis haill" 

Was I sleeping or waking ? The latter ; for my hand was tingling dread- 
fully, and my wrist was nearly dislocated by the force I had used. I was 
trembline all over with the effort, and she was not aware of the blow ! I 
don't believe the creature had even felt me. 

Those were the two instances in my Southern experience of punishing 
negroes. In both cases I came off so much the greater sufferer, that I con- 
cluded the means did not answer the purpose ; and if I lived twenty years 
more in the South, nothing would ever induce me to strike a negro again. 

These delightful specimens of black humanity monopolised all the 
fruit in the garden and orchard, just as some white servants do at home. 
Until water-melons came into season, one plateful of plums was the first 
and last fruit that was rescued from a whole garden and orchard full, and 
that in Florida — the land of flowers and iiruit ! It has been said that 
President Lincoln's emancipation proclamation was as much aimed at the 
combatants in the South, with the view to drive them home to their 

14 The Negroes of the South. 

plantaiions to look after their n^roes, as intended to raise the negroes 
iiiemselves ii^retolt. The following anecdote of the neg^o **hoss," or 
steward, in the cotton plantations, illustrates the point in question, and 
18 the more interesting, as occurrii^ in Florida) the very state recently 
iiivaded t>y armed negroes under Federal officers : 

These people, whom I- used tx> come upon quite suddenly, on emerging from 
our little path in the woods upon the cotton-Md, erinced the same fear- 
leas freedom of manner towards *^ white folk" that Was so remarkable in 
Virginia. Whether I noticed thfem or net, a sahitatiou'was not long in greet- 
ing me. 

^* Yon be aUers a hunting^ weeds^ am^ you, missus P What's the use an' 
them?'- 0» seeing me emamine the cotten plants, and no doubt investing me 
vpith the quaiijties of a connoisseur, the '* boss" uncle asked^ " How^s Muster 
Milton'm cotton crop a comin' on, mistis ^'*' 

" It's very fine inJteed^already in bloom/* 

That waBsi the b^inning of JPune, and die news did not appear very welcome 

^^ Weill I I< redoon there isn't maniy that cftn he&t tit at making cotton. We 
can make more out o' one piece o* land* tban most ^Iks, /reckon." 
. ^^¥o«r.>;field looks, very fine, but Genei^ l^lton's is neatrlytwo weeks for- 
wardeor. .It has been in biossom mere than a week, and some of it is nearly 
in boll." 

That was Worse' aewfr^ still,' aAd the man- 'beeakfteqt^te' self-important as he 
replied, >^i>allBrs likes what /do, tb be just about the best as can be done. I 
don't like fimao other hands ^ get a hiCffiui of otlrs.- That's what I allers aim 
at,^'! he added, as he todc aiself-ssKiisfied Survey of his crop. That negro was 
one of ten thousand : such emulation is very rare among them. 

'Hbrne'-sfeftriess-^fiScferiess induced by climate, despondency, and morbid 
anx5ety-T-,sqon drove the author forth froip. Florida (where, by-Uie-by, she 
visits .w;tl(i^a {9^..df^ oi buying A noble estate at ten cents an acre) up the 
Chattf^^ahiei and acresSiGveorgia tc> Charleston and Bichmond, at 
which lattes city slienldteaiely obtained a past to the Northern States. 
Slie-thti8«6()«ttl^ OP rather writes, of what she saw of the <^ down -trodden 
slaves" in Georgia : 

Ne^ss^t^ QpmpelUd me^ to. cQnti«ue :my. journey on the Sabbath>day ; and 
what 4^ 1 j$,ee throughout thitti Sui^ay jouraey? Crowds of.slaves in gayest 
attire, botn men and women, getting on and ofi* the train at every country 
''s^toppiiijip place ;" more paxticularly at Americas andCuthbert, two towns 
of Georgia. , 'VS^^here were, they going, in dresses mere expensive than many 
of^ their own masters and mistresses^ in those times of blockade and economy ? 
Spmc.iQ a.dJstaQt qhurcbi soxn^.jto exchange visits at a neighbouring planta- 
tion, and some merely to eiyoy tbe.ride^«tiaerry,.noisyj loquacious creatures, 
wholly ,1j^lCQ]^cio^s^ of icare or anxiety ; while on the platform at the roadside 
stk^on stood groups of grayerl^king thoughtfijd me%.who only lifted their 
eyes £:p^„|^.g;r9nnd tpi give a. nod to theitegro slasire, who persisted in at- 
tracting tJtie at4;^iion of " i|f)a9aanx.. My heart grew sick at the contrast, while 
I rdSected that it is these very slaves for whom the whole world is now being 
brought into calamity. I took particular notiqe 4>f the dresses of scune of the 
negro bfiUes^yiiAfh w^i^e pot only expensive, but in excellent taste; and so 
Wi^e ^ps<^ of their ^^<2^v.^ho sported heavy gold rings and chains, tasteful 
neckties, ax^.T^ho. held the fans and psurasols of their companions, assisted 
thcni intq th^.icatriag^< and treated them to wat^-melons, with all the dig- 
nity of It^sp^^Xp^^-^tV^^^^^i^ ■ ■ -■ 

Once among the Federals, she^footh conversed isi great deaf about the 
Soutfaerbers) and' heard^ itouch that was said about the prospects of the 
waf/ Onie Federal officer said, among other things : 

Tlie Negroes of the South. 15 

'' Much as it would have been against my feelings a year ago to harbour 
such a thought, I am now convinced that we must go on with this war until 
the country is cleared of them" (the Southerners). 

" And you must annihilate them before you conquer them, for they will 
never come back to the Union," I told him. 

*' Oh, you need not tell us that. When we get possession of Richmond we 
shall bring them to their senses. We are now preparing to attack them by a 
concerted movement on all sides at once. Nothing can save them : look at 
our vastly superior numbers compared with theirs." 

Just think of my listening to such things, and not being able to warn the 
" vastly" inferior " numbers" of devoted rebels ; though I knew they pos- 
sessed one advantage that their enemies could not boast^ which was a spirit 
and courage that made up for their deficiency of numbers. But I merely 
said, " Excuse me, you may possess Richmond and all Virginia ; Charleston, 
Savannah, and Mobile besides, and it will make no difference." 

I said that, and a great deal more, and was quite surprised at my own 
boldness ; but I resolved that if I could do anything to convince them of the 
uselessness of prosecuting the war, I would do so. We also talked on the 
emancipation question, and he asked me what the " rebels" thought of it. I 
told him they thought that the Northern President in this, only gave fresh 
proof of his short-sightedness, and total misapprehension of Southern 

" How will I^ncoln's proclamation scheme affect these people ?" 

" Some will never know of it, God be thanked ! Some will never leave 
their homes and masters, if they do hear of it. But some, no doubt, will hear 
of it, and also take advantage of it, as the negroes of New Orleans are 

*^ Do you not think that the greater part of them will rise, and try to escape 
to our people ?" 

^' How can they escape to the borders from the far-off interior without the 
risk of discovery, which would be certain death, or else the risk of starvation 
and of suffering which they have never known before ? Nothing but misery 
can result from such a scheme; misery to the slaves and grief to their 
masters, when compelled to resort to such fearful extremes as will be forced 
upon them." 

** Well, to tell the truth, there are very few of our pepple who approve of 
the scheme, nor yet that of arming the negroes to nght in the ranks. I 
believe three-fourths of us would resign if Lincoln persists in carrying it 

'* Besides, what right has Mr. Lincoln to send messages to the Southerners^ 
servants any more than you have to give permission to your neighbour's 
coachman to take a trip in the Great Eastern f*^ 

** We don^t reall^r want to interfere with slavery, it isn't that we care so 
much about ; but it*s this thing of having the U nion broken up : we can't 
allow tAat. I have been in the South myself, and I don't find so much fault 
with slavery ; but you see the niggers stay at home and work while all the white 
men go and fight. Now if it were not for them, their masters would be 
obliged to stay at home and cultivate their own land, as our men do, or starve, 
and that would so reduce thdr army that there would be no chance for them. 
That's what our government is up to." 

^* Supposing they do hear of the proclamation, as a few of them may, but 
with very confused notions of what it means ; how are they to get away ? 
Would an^ of the Southern armj allow a band of negroes to pass their lines 
with the mtendon of escape without shootins them down, aher such a pro- 
clamation as Lincoln's ? It will simply drive &e negroes to their destruction. 
Removed from authority the negro is a savage." 

*^ The^ are so confounded proud, those Secessionists. The wont thing in 
slavery is, that labour is disgraced by it. Those slave-holding aristocrat! 

ifay— TOL. CXXVUI. NO. DIX. C 

16 The Negroes of the South. 

look down upon us for tlie yerj thinji; that we pride ourselves most upon. 
We respect people all the more when they help themselves.'' 

^' That is very true and praiseworthy. I have observed with regret what 
YOU mention to be the case. Slavery is certainly an obstacle to progress, 
both of the white and the coloured race.'* 

*' They keep their negroes ignorant, to hide their degraded position fi*om 

*' Excuse me, I think not. I have met with many very intelligent negroes, 
slaves, and feel convinced that when left entirely under the influence of 
their owners, they will be educated much more than at present. The 
South^mers choose to manage their own servants, and have been more 
rigorous of late years on account of the abolition rage. Slavery will wear 
itself out, and this is its only remedy." 

An innkeeper at Baltimore declared* that, if any of the Southern 
generals were to appear in that city, they would rise as one man. They 
were only waiting their opportunity. Of the grand Corcoran ovation, 
she heard one gentleman say : '^ They are only making a tool of him, to 
get up an Irish brigade." We cannot leave this interesting and decidedly 
very instructive work, witJsiout culling another specimen of transatlantic 
discussion : 

Colonel or General Corcoran was being upheld by a Northern gentleman, 
and was represented to have been imprisoned in the *' Tombs,'' and to have 
been kept *^ over a dead-house" — no such places existing in the South, that I 
ever heard of. 

An English gentleman, who had not long since left the South, took up the 
siibject, and warmly excLaimed, ^'I was in Hichmond while Colonel Corcoran 
was imprisoned there, saw many persons who visited his prison, and know 
that this statement is entirely false, and that until his condition was changed, 
as a means of warning to the Federal government that it should, by undue 
violence to Southern prisoners, be held responsible for his life, he was treated 
as a sentleman and prisoner of war, and amply furnished with whatever com- 
forts Richmond itself afforded.'' 

A Southerner added, " These things are written in order to deepen the 
hatred and stimulate the revenge with which the war is now being carried on." 

"If the Union party in the Korth are firm in proclaiming 'Deadi rather 
than dismemberment,' the Southerners are much more determined in saying 
* Extermination rather than submission,' " said a gentleman from New 

The former replied, ^' And as to union, it is not power we crave, but peace. 
It is to escape the contact of * Yankees' altogether, under any and every cir- 
cumstance ; and if President Davis were appointed Military Dictator, King, 
or even Emperor of the North, I firmly believe he would decline the privilege 
of ruling Yankee subjects." 

'* The Yankees leave no stone unturned to weaken the power of the South ; 
and one object is to lure away the negro labourers in order more easily to 
' starve their masters into submission,' " rejoined the Louistanian. 

^^ Starve. ! that's the old story again. Can they starve us in such a country 
as ours ? Look at Virginia and Tennessee, what large wheat-growing states 
they are ; they would supply the English market as well as our own, so soon 
as our ovm ports are opened, as they have already done through Northern 
ports before the war. There will be no lack of ^ bread stufis' idien peace and 
agriculture go hand in hand, not only for ourselves, but others. There is not 
modi danger of our starving ; we have only to plant com instead of cotton." 

" ExacUy so," replied the gentleman from New Orleans; ^* but no cotton 
will be planted if there is no prospect of a sale, and another year of bloodshed, 
wliich is a disgrace to humanity, wiU ensue, and another year of snfiering for 
your Englbh fiictory hands." 

The Negroes of the South. 17 

" Let neutrality display itself in trading with all ports, or none, and then 
the war would soon be over — that's what I think," said the Englishman from 
the South. 

" But we should not permit you to open our ports : the raising of the 
blockade would be followed by war," said the Northern gentleman ; " and 
what would be the use of your attempting to fight us P you would only get 
whipped again, as you were before.'* 

" As to that, it was our blood that fought your battles,*' retorted John Bull ; 
" the States were inhabited by people of different mettle then than they are 
now. You have too much on your hands already, and are going headlong to 
ruin. Recognition of the South would be more likely to bring your govern- 
ment to its senses, with so large an anti-war party already rampant ; and you 
find it too hard a matter to raise men and furnish artillery to conquer the 
South to attempt the conquest of England or Canada either ; and what would 
you do between all three ?*' 

** Excuse me, sir," said the Yankee, " you underrate our power ; we have 
bad upwards of a million in the field, and don't miss our men. We shall now 
raise six hundred thousand more, and as many more to back Ihem when thej 
are gone." 

What a wholesale extermination way of talking, and how horrible that 
sounded ! though it was but too true, as I had seen so lately, and where theif 
armies were composed chiefly of foreigners ; but I could not help wishing 
that they did miss their men much more, and realised the horrors of the war 
they were waging, which perhaps would have induced them to put an end to 
it without such reddess sacrifice of life. Yet I had heard the Northern people 
dedare (among themselves) that the factories were losing their best hands ; 
and out West, that the farmers ofiered three dollars a day for labourers. 

Another day they were talking of slavery, and the Yankee gentleman wai 
speaking of the Southerners leaving their negroes to take care of themselves^ 
while they made good their own escape. 

My fellow-countryman again took up the cudgels, and spoke of the sacri- 
fice the owners were obliged to make when they had fled, with the Federal 
gun-boats firing on them. He said one lady had informed him that she had 
saved three negroes out of two hundred. Another had brought away one 
out of fifty, and so on. And these were carried away in prefisrence to 
clothing, jewellery, or other valuables, which would have occupied less space, 
less care, and required no food and lodging. Valuables of all description 
were left to the enemy. 

An English lady observed, ^' If the helpless and old ones were left behind, 
I am inclined to think that it was a sad consequence of the invasion, and not 
the neglect of owners." 

I thought of sable Jane in Florida. 

" The nesTo slaves are better off than our paupers," said th« Englishman, 
^^ under ordinary times, but now are in a more enviable condition in every 
way, as they know not the want of food or clothing, while the state of our 
starving poor is only one of the frightful consequences of the war." 

There is something veiy suggestive in the last remark, which we have 
before alluded to in other words. And yet we are told by the Manchester 
School that political economy is a science ! Is it science that, in Eng- 
land, a whole nation should be encouraging idleness by continuing a pro- 
longed support, when other fields of labour, or other regions for employ- 
menty are open to the industrious and enterprising ? or is it science that, 
in the Souihern States, the £ne old families should be fighting and their 
&milies sulFering all kinds of losses and privations, while their negroes 
and negresses are living in luxury, and wallowing in insolence, dress, and 
extravagance, if not wantonness P - 


( 18 ) 


■ V 



• ■ • •■ ■ . • < •'•.». ■ ' ■ ' \ ^ •:■•■. . . ' . , > 

."■ •• .. . .-. • I. -•■ 


The fiuilimer wa6< drawing towards its close ; and so was the bank- 
ruptcy of Qodolpbin, Crosse, and Godolphin.-^If we adhere to the 
style 6f the dd-fititt, we only do as Prior's Ash did, Mr. Crosse, you 
have heard, was out of it actually and officially, but people, in speak- 
ing or writ^^ df the 'firm, forgot to leave out bis name. One or two 
maddened sufferers raised a question of bis liability in their hopeless 
desperation ; but they gained nothing by the taciotk)n : Mr. Orosse was 
as legally s^jiarated firom the Gk)dblp&ins as if he had never been con- 
nected with tbem.-^The labour, the bonfiKiion, and the doubt, attendant 
upon most bankruptcieiii was nearly over, and creditors knew the best 
and the worst* The dividends would be^ to use a common expression, 
shamefully small, when all was told: they might have been even 
toaller (not much, though) but that Lord Averil's daim on the 
sixteen thousand pounds, the value of the bonds, was not allowed to 
enter iuto it. Those bonds and all connected with them were sunk in 
silenbe so complete, that at length some outsiders began to ask whether 
tbey and their reported loss had not been a myth altogether. 

Thomas Godolphin had given up everjrthing, even to the watch in 
Ms pocket, the signet rkig upon his finger. The latter was returned 
to him. The jewellery of the Miss Gddolphins was given up. Maria's 
jewellery was given up. In short, there was nothing that was not 
given up. The fortune of the Miss G-odolphins, consisting of money 
and bank shares^ was of course gone with the rest. The money had 
been in the bank s^t interest ; the shares were now worthless. Janet 
alone had an annuity of about a hundred a year, which nothing could 
deprive her of : the rest of the Oodolphins were reduced to beggary. 
Worse off, wer^ they^ than any of their clamorous creditors ; since, 
for them, all had gone : houses, lands, moneys furniture, personal be- 
longings. But that Thomas Gk>do)pbin would not long be in a land 
where these things are required, it might have been a question how he 
was for the luture to get sufficient of them to live. 

The arrangement hinted at by Lord AveriL had been carried out, 
and that noUeman was now the owner of Ashlydyat and all that it 
contained. It may have been a little departing from the usual order 
of i&e law m sndi cases, to dispose of it by private arrangement ; but 
it had been done with the full consent of all parties concerned. Even 
the creditoito, who of course showed themsdves ready to cavil at every- 
thing, were glad that the cost of a public sale by auctbn should be 
avoided. A price had been put upon Ashlydyat, and Lord Averil 

TTie Shadow of Ashlydyat 19 

gave it without a dissentient word ; and the purchase of the furniture, 
as it stood, was undoubtedly advantageous to the sellers. 

Yes, Ashljdyat bad gone from the Godolphins. But Thomas and 
his sisters remained in it. There had beeil no battle with Thomas on 
the score of his remaining. Lord Averil had clasped his friend's hands 
within his own, and in a word or two of emotion had given him to 
understand that his chief satisfaction in its purchase had been the 
thought that he, Thomas, would remain in his( own home, as long — as 

long Thomas G-odolphin understood the broken words : as long 

as he had need of one. *' IS othing would induce me to enter upon my 
habitation in it until then," continued Lord Averil. " So be it," said 
Thomas, quietly, for he fully cbmpt6hdtided thcf feeling, and the grati- 
fication' it brought to the conferr^ of the obligation. ^'I sliaU not 
keep you out of it Itoig,. Averil*'^ The same worda^ almost the same 
words that 'Sir George Qodolphin had once spoken to his son : '"I shall 
not keep you and Ethel long out of Ashlydyat.'^ 

So Thomas remained at Ashlydyat with his broken health, and the 
weeks had gone on ; aiid the summer was now dpawing to an end, and 
more things beside it. Thomas Qt>dolph]b,was beginning to be better 
understood than he had beenatthjB time of the otiasb^ and peopl^ were 
repentii^ of the eruel blame they had so freely htltled upon him. The 
early smart, of thet blow had faded a^ay, and with it the prejudice which 
had^BJustiy^ though not unnaturally, distorted tbiQir judgm^at, and 
buried for the time all kixkdlyimlpulse. Perhaps tiieretiPiiA^ot a single 
ereditor, whatever might be • the ^extent of the damage he ^ad sufiered 
by the bank, but would have stretehed out his haad and given morQ 
gold^ if by that means he eould have saved the life of Thomas G-odol- 
phin. They leaimt tO: remember that the fault had not lain with him : 
they believed' that ^if hf the sacri/fice <if his owut 1^« he could have 
avertedthe calamity he would havq cheerfully saarifioed it;^ they knew 
that hisdayv were as one long mournings fof themi^ indiiddually-nand 
they took shame to themselves* for hav&lig been so bitt^ against him, 
Thomas Gbddlphin^ f • - ^ 

Not so in regard to Geoi^e. He did not regain his place in their 
estimatiim: aiid if they could have hoisted Mr. George on a pole in 
front of the bank and cast at him a few rotten ^gs and Mother agree* 
able missiles^ it had been a comforting relief to their spleen. Had 
George been condemned to stand atthe -bar of a public tiuounal by the 
noblooiaa he had so defraiided> half Prior' s A^h would ha\^ gone to 
recreate tbeir fiBelings by staring^ at him during the; tiriai, tod made it 
into a day of jubilee/ Harsh epithets, exceediiCLgiy unpleasant when 
taken personally, were freely lavished on him, and would be for a long 
while to come. ^Qhad wronged them : and time alone will suffice to 
wash the ever-present remembrance of such wrbtigs out. , '^ 

He had been at Prior's Ash. Ghty George stilL So far as could be 
seen, the calamity had not much affected him. Not a line showed 
itself on his fair, smooth brow, not a shade less of colour on bis bright 
cheek, not a grey thread in his luxuriant hair, not a doiid in his dark 
blue eye. Handsmae, fascinating, iattractive as ever was George Go* 
d(dphiii : and he really seemed to be as gay and light of temperament. 
When anj ill-used creditor attached him outright— -as some did, through 

20 The Shadot» ofAMhfydyaL 

a casual meeting in the street; or o^er lucky ehanee— G«orge wa» 
triumphant Gec»<ge still. !N^ot a bit of shame did he seem to take to 
himself-— but so sunny, so fascinating waa be, as he held the bands of 
the half-relueta&t grumbler, and protested it should all come right 
sometime, that the enemy was won ov^r to conciliation for the passing 
moment. It \ra8 impossible to help admiring George Godolphin; it 
was impossible, when brought face to face with him, not to be taken 
with his frank plausibility : the crustiest sufferer of them all was in a 
degree subdued by it. Prior^s Ash und^nstood that the officers of the 
bankruptcy " badgered" George a great deal when under his examina- 
tions, but'George only seemed to come out of it the more triumphant. 
Safe on the score of Lord ATeril, all the rest was in comparison light ; 
and easy George never lost his good humour or his self-possessicoi. 
He appeared to come scot-free out of ererything. Those falsified 
accounts^in the bank books, that many another might hare been held 
responsible for and punished, he emerged from harmless. It was con- 
jectured that the full extent of these false entriea never was discovered 
by the commissioners : Thomas Godolphin and Mr. Hurde alone could 
have told it: and Thomas preferred to let the odium of loosely-kept 
books, of reckless expenditure of money, fall upon himself, rather than 
betray George, Were the whole thing laid bare and declared, ifc could 
not bring a single fraction of benefit to the creditors, so, in that point 
of view, it was as well to let it rest. Are these careless, sanguine, gay- 
tempered men always lucky P It has been so asserted ; and I do think 
there's a great deal of truth in it. Most unequivocally lucky in this 
instance was George Godolphin. 

It was of no eartlily use asking him where all the money had gone 
—to what use this sum had been put, to what use the other — George 
could not tell. He could not tell any more than they could ; he was 
as much perplexed over it as they were. He ran his white hand un- 
consciously through his shining golden hair, hopelessly trying his best 
to account for a great many items that nobody living could have ac- 
counted for. All in vain. Heedless, off'-handed GecMrge Ghodolphin ! 
He appeared before those inquisitive officials somewhat gayer in attire 
than was needful. A sober suit, rather of the seedy .order, than bran 
new, might be deemed appropriate at such a time ; but George Go- 
dolphin gave no indication of consulting any such rules of propriety. 
George Grodolphin*s refined good taste had kept him from falling into 
the loose and easy style of dress which some men so strangely favour 
in the present day, putting a gentleman in outward aspect on a level 
with the roughs of society. George, though no coxcomb, had been 
addicted to dress well and expensively ; and George appeared inclined 
to do the same thing still. They could not take him to task on the 
score of his fine broadcloth, or of his neatly-finished boot ; but they 
did bend their eyes meaningly on the massive gold chain which crossed 
his white waistcoat ; on the costly appendages which dangled from it ; 
on the handsome gold repeater which he more than onee took out, as 
if weary of the passing hours. Mr. George received a gentle hint that 
those articles, however ornamental to himself, must be confiscated to 
the bankruptcy ; and he resigned them with a good grace. The news 
of this little incident travell^ abroad, as an interesting anecdote con- 

The Shadow ofA$hfy(fyat. SI 

Bected wiUi the prooeedings, and the next time George saw Charlotte 
Pain, she told him hewas a fool to walk into the eamp of the PhiHiE^ 
tines with pretty things about him. But Garget was not irilfollj dis- 
honest (if you can by any possibility understand that assertion, after 
what you know of his past doings), and he replied to Charlotte that it 
was only right the creditors should make spoil of bis watch and any- 
thing else he possessed. The truth, were it defined, beings ^t Qe^r&d 
was Mily dishonest when driven so to bet. He had made free with the 
btmds oiliosd Ayeril, bnt he could not be guilty of the meanness of 
hiding his personal tnnkets. 

Three or four times now had George been at Prior's Ash* People 
wondered why he did not remain ; what it was that took him again and 
again to London. The yery instant he found tiut he could be dis- 
pensed with at PruMr's Ash, away he flew; not to return to it again 
nntdl imperatively demanded. The plain fact was thai Mr. Ge<»ge did 
not like to face Prior's Ash. Por all the easy seLf-possessioDy the gay 
good humour he displayed to its inhabitants, the place . had become 
utterly distasteful to him, almost unbearable ; he shunned it and hated 
it as a pious Eoman Catholic hates and shuns purgatory. Poor that 
reason, and for no other, Gkorge did his best to escape fK>m it. 

He had seen Lord AveriL And his fair face had betrayed its shame 
as he said a few words of apology for what he had done — <if thanks for 
the clemency shown him — of promises for the future. " If I live, I'U 
make it good to you," he murmured. '^ I did not think to ^ieal them, 
Averil ; I did not, on my solemn word of honour. I thought I should 
have replaced them before anything could be known. Your asking for 
them impiediately — that you should do so seemed like a fatality — ^upset 
everything. But for that I might have weathered it all, and the house 
would not have gone. It was no light pressure that forced me to touch 
them-<-Heaven alone knows the need and the temptation." 

And the meeting between the brothers P No eye saw it ; no ear 
heard it. Good Thomas Godolphin was dying from the blow, dying 
before his time; but not a word of harsh reproach was thrown to 
€^rge. How G-eorge defended himself — or whether he attempted 
to defend himself, or whether he let it wholly alone— the public never 

Lady Godolphin's PoUy was no longer in the occupancy of the 
Verralls or of Mrs. Pain : Lady Gt>dolphin had returned to it. Not 
a day aged ; not a day altered. Time flitted most lightly over Lady 
Godolphin. Her bloom-tinted complexion was delicately fresh as ever ; 
ber dress was as becoming, her flaxen locks were as youthful. She 
came with her servants and her carriages, and she took up her abode 
at the Polly, in* all the splendour of the old days. Her income was 
large, and the misfortunes which had recently fallen on the fiuoily did 
not affect it. Lady Godolphin washed her hands of these misfortunes. 
She washed her hands of George. She told the world that she did so. 
She spoke of them openly to the public in general, to her acquaintance 
in particular, in a slighting, contemptuous sort of manner, as we are 
all apt to speak of the ill doings of other people. They don't concern 
us, and it's rather a ccmdescension on our part to blame them at alL 
This wap no coneern of Lady Godolphin's. She told everybody it was 

P The Shadow of Asbh/dyat 

npt. 6iBorge!s diagra^9 did not reflect itself upon the family, and of 
him she — washed her handflk ,!Na; Ladj Godolpbin could not see that 
this brea^-up ^us^bj6eQrg« should be anj reason whatev^ why 
^he or tha.Miss .Qpd^pbios should hide their heads and go mourning 
in sackcloth and ashes. Many of her old acquaintances in the county 
agreed with Lady G-odolphin in her view of things^ and helped by their 
Tisits to make the Folly gay again. 

To wa^h her.h^ndsof Mr. Gisorgewas, equitably speaking, no more 
than thi^t gjentl^saw dese^ed ; but Jjady Godolphin also washed her 
hm)ds of Mai'ia* ^n her return, to Prior'« Ash she had felt indined 
tp espo,u8d,-Maria'B paz^ .^ to.^ympathisa with, and pity her ; and she 
4j^pye .dojrn in^ state, one day; aii4 left ber carriage with its powdered 
coachman and footman to pace to and fro before the bank, while she 
went in. . .She opienly avowed to Maria that she considered herself in 
ilVremot^, d^grct^.thei jcause which had led to her union with George 
Godolphin.:. she supposed that it was hex having had Maria so much 
at the EpUy^and afterwards on the visit atBroomhead, wliich had led 
to the^tacbvo^nt. As a. matter of course she regretted this, and 
wished there had been no marriage, now that George had turned out 
so gracelessly. K she could do anything to repair it she would : and, 
as a first step, she offered the Folly as a present asylum to Maria. 
She would be safe there from worry, a.nd— from George. 

Maria scarcely at first understood. And when she did, her only 
.answer was to thank Lady Godol|^in, and to stand out, in her quiet, 
gentle manner, but untiringly and firmly^ for her husband. Not a 
shade of blan^ would she acknowledge to be due to him ; not a reve- 
rence would she render him the less : her place was with him, she said, 
though the whole world turned against him. It vexed Lady Go- 

" Do you know," she asked,'*' that you must choose between your 
husband and the world P" 

" In what way?" replied Maria. 

**In what way! When a man acts in the manner that George 
.Godolphm has acted, he puts a barrier between himself and society. 
But there's no necessity for i^e barrier to extend to you, Maria. If 
you will comoto my house for a while, you will find this to be the case 
— that it will not extend to you." 

** You are very kind, Lady Godolphin. My husband is more to me 
than the world." 

" Do you approve of what he has done ?*' 

" No," wpJiic^ Maria; "But it is not my place to show that I 
blame." . . 

" I think it is," said Lady Godolphin, in the hard tone she used 
when her .opinion was cr^ossed. . > 

i M^ria w{^ silent. She never, could contend with any one. 

" Th^nyott; prefer to hold out against the world," resumed Lady 
GodQlphin; "to put^ yourself beyond its pale! It is a bold step, 
Haria." -.; • ^■•. •: ........ 

".What (jau I do E" was Maria's pleading answer. "If the world 
throws m^ over Vecause J will not turn, against my husband, I cannot 
bdp it. I married him. for better and for worse, Lady Godolphin." 

TM Shadow cf Aihlyd^. S3 

' '^The&ot is^ Maria,'' letortediny lAdf/skarply/ '^tluikt^^y^ havie 
loved George Godolphin in d rididulou^ de|^(d^i*" '« > 

" Fei^iapa I have/' was MafiJEk^g BulMtued atidw^er, the tole^r djeiiig 
her face with various Teininisiceiioes< ^ But stkte^jr ttier^ #as iao rin ih 
it, Lady Godolpbins lieis my htisbalul.'' * ''^ *^ ■' 

'^ And you ding to hw Btill^P^ » ' ' ' r ' - -'^ - ^ 

" Oil yes." -.>Ji;V;!- ■■.•.:; -i -j i .....; )-l\-\- <'' '■ c." 

Lady Gkodoipfain rose; ^hetihrogged' her ihouldek^ad^tiel'^di'ew lier 
white laoesbawl over them, sbeglanded at her eoquetti^ Mde'botthet 
in the pier-glass asshe passed it^ at her blush-rose^ cheeks.; '^* Tou have 
ohosea your husb^ndf Maria/ in: preference tom^; in (fiieibr^ee tothe 
worldf and from tbi» moment I waish myhmids of yeu^'as^l hav6 
already done of him."' < ■ ; ■ ' .•■.' •-■■..•- u.: ..;.-.' ;••■.'. ;w!.'. i;.-;.".).; -^ -'^ 

It was all the farewdft she' took r land she^ went otit t<y ' her carriage 
thinking what a blind, obst^te^ hardened w<^an wfts Mftria^ €k)dbl^ 
phin. She saw not what it had cost that '* hardened " w^Hiteoi to hesk 
np before her ; that her heart was nigh untohtea^iiDg * that thel sorroi^ 
liud upon h^ was greater tha^^ she well knew how to* baittle with. 

' '. . 

1 1. ri, V '. 1 i-tr; ;»/j; ■>' 'P7 \r-.' !-' >' 

1 ■ » . 

» > ■' 

; : i; ;I. -.i ^' 

; y\. 

. ij'. 

-. i 

. , ■-. ; 

■ ' ! , .;''*/'* ■ • 

• i r 

< \ • 

• ,.?»;>- :■■! . ■;»■ 


Gso^OtE OonoXiPHiir leaned against a piUas^pftJite. terrace opening 
from, the dining-room. They h^d not left the bank yet ^a a. residence^ 
but this was their last dayin it.. : It;WAd theJast day tbey> could stop 
in it, and why they sbovild have lingered miV soi long waa food for 
gossip .n\ Prior's Ash. On the Baorrow the bouse woiild be^ as may 
be said, public property. Men would walk in and ticket all the thipgs^ 
apportioning them their plaQO: in the caUdogue, their oxd^rJoL the days 
of sale, and the public would crowd in also, to feast their teyes upoa 
the household gods hitherto sacred tO George Godolpbin. : 

How did he feel as he stoo4 there ? Was his spirit in heaviness, as 
was the case under similar i^isfortune of anothei: man — if the writtea 
record he; lefb to us may be truated^-^that great and noUe |>oet, iU- 
fated in death as in life, whose, transo^dent genius has since n)und no 
parallel. . ■: ; » •' • 

It was a ^ryi^g, moment^ that wluoi.. found Mm, 
Standing alone beside his desolate hearth, ,.^ 

While all liis hoosehpld gods lay shivered roiin^ Mxa^. , , 

Did George God<dphin find it trying ? Wiii^ his hearth desolate ? 
Not desolate in the full sense that that other spoke, for Gkorge Gto^ 
dolphin's wife was with him stilL ' "■■'"' ' 

8he had stood by him. When he first returned to Prior's Ash. she 
had greeted him with her kind sfn^, with words of welcoine. What- 
ever e£^t that unpleasant scandal, mentioned by Margery, which it 
seems had formed a staple dish for Prior's Ash, may have been taking 
upon her in secret and silence, she had given no sign of it to Geoifge^ 
He never suspected that any such whispc^, touching his worthy self^ 
had been breathed to h^. Mr. George best knew wlfat grouhds therb 
might be for it : whether it bore any foundation, or whether it was 

24 The Shadow ef AshfyefyM. 

but one of tliose ibreezj rumcnirs, false as the win^ wbieb hare their 
rise in ill nature, and in that i^oxie: but howeT«r it may have been, 
whether true or false, he could not divine that such poison wonld be 
dropped into his wife's ear. If he had thought her greeting to him 
strange, her manner more utterly subdued than there was need for, 
her grief of greater violence, he attributed it all to the recent mis- 
fortunes : and Maria made no other sign. 

The effects had been bought in it Ash}jdyat, but these had not : 
and this was the last day, almost the last hour of his occnpancy of 
^em. One wot^ think his eyes would be east around in liagering 
looks of regretful farewell — ^upon the chairs and tables, on the scat- 
tered omament?, down to the rich carpets, up to the valuable and 
familiar pictures. Not a bit of it. George's eyes were bent on his 
nails which he was trimming to his satisfaction, and he was carolling 
in an undep tone a strain of a new English opera. 

They were to go ^out that evening. At dni^. At dusk, you may 
be sure. They were to go forth from their luxurious home, and ent^ 
upon obscure lodgings, and go altogether down in the scale of what 
the world calls society. Not that the lodgings were so obscure, taking 
them in the abstract; obscure indeed, as compared with their hom^at 
the bank, very obscure beside the home they had sometime thought to 
remove to — xlshlydyat. 

G-eorge could not be prudent : he could not, had his life depended 
em it, been savinj. When the time approached that they might no 
longer stay in the bank, and Maria, in writing to him in London, re- 
minded him of that fact, and asked where they were to go and what 
they were to do, Greorge had returned for answer that there was no 
hurry, she might leave it all to him. But the next day brought him 
down ; and he went out, off-hand, and engaged some fashionable rooms 
at three guin^is a week. Maria was dismayed when she heard the 
price. How was it to be paid ? Geoi^e did not see precisely how, 
himself, just at present : but, to his sanguine disposition, the paying of 
ten guineas a week for lodgings would have looked quite easy. Maria 
had more forethought, and prevailed. The three-guinea a week rooms 
were given up, and some taken at half the rent. She would have 
wished a lower rent still ; but George laughed at her. 

He stood there in his careless beauty, his bright face bent down- 
wards, his taU fine form, noble in its calmness. The sun was playing 
with his hair, bringing out its golden tints, and a smile illumined his 
face, as he went on with his song. Whatever may have been George 
Godolphin'a short-comings in some points of view, none could reproach 
him on the score of his personal attractions. All the old terror, the 
carking care, had gone out of him with the easy bankruptcy — easy in 
its results to him, compared to what might have been — and gay 
Gteorge, graceless George, was himself again. There may have been 
BomethiDg deficient in his moral organisation, for he really appeared 
to take no shame to himself for what had occurred. He stood there 
calmly self-possessed ; the perfect gentleman, so far as looks and 
manners coiild make him one ; looking as fit to bend his knee at the 
proud court of St. James's; as ever that stately gentleman his father 

TAe Sbadoto qfAMydy<a. 25 

bad done^wlien bar Majesty touched him with the flashing sword- 
blade and bid him rise up Sir G(eorgei 

Once would in J heart with tUe wildest emptiop. 
Throb, dearest El^j, when near me wert thou j 
Now I regard thee with deep 

The strain was interrupted^aiid €korge, as he eeased it, glanced upc 
Meia, looking, it; must be oosifessed, rather black about the hands 
and pinafore, as if Margery had not had time to attend to her within 
the last hour, came running in* George shut up \m knife and held 
out his arms. 

^' Papa, are we to have tea at hom% or after we get into the lodg- 

"Ask mamma," responded George. 

'^ Mamma told me to ask you. She doesn't know, she says. She's 
too bui^ to talk to me. She's gettmg the great box on to the 

^' She's doing what P" cried George, in a quick accent. 

" Getting the great box on to the stand,'* repeated Meta. " She's 
giojng to pack it. Papa, will the lodgings be bett^ than this ? Will 
there be a big garden ? Margery says there'll be bo room for my 
rocking-horse. Won't there P" 

Something in the child's questions may hare grated on the fine ear 
•f George Godolphin, had he stayed to listen to them. Howevw 
lightly the bankruptcy might be passing orer George's mind on his 
own score, be regretted its results most bitterly fcnr his wifis and 
child. To see them turned from their home, condemned to descend 
to the inconveniences and obscurity of these poor lodgings^ was the 
worst pill George Godolphin bad ever had to swallow. He would 
have cut off his right arm to retain them in their poestion ; ay, and 
also his left : he could have struck himself down to the eaorth in his 
rage, for the disgrace he had brought on them. 

Hastening up the stairs^ he entered his bedroom^ It was in a 
litter ; boxes and wearing-apparel lying about. Maria, flushed and 
breathless, was making great efforts to drag a eumbrons trunk on 
a stand, or small bench, ios the convenience of filling it. No very 
extensive efforts, either ; for she knew that such might harm her at 
present in her feeble strength. 

George raised the trunk to its place with one lifb of his manly 
arms, and then forced his wife, with more gentleness, into a chair. 

" How can you be so improdent, Maria ?" broke from him in a 
vexed tone, as he stood before her. 

" I was not hurting myself," she answered. "The things must be 

" Of course they must. But not by you. Where's Margery ?" 

" Margery has a great deal to do. She cannot do it all." 

" Then where's Sarah P" resumed George, crossly and sharply. 

** Sarah's in the kitchen getting our dinner ready. We must bar© 
some to*day." 

" Show me what the things are, and I will pack them." 

26 Tk$ Shadow ofAshlydyat 

'M^onfiensel As if it would hurt me to put the things into the 
box ! Tou never interfered with me before, G-eorge." 

*^ Toa never attempted this sort of work before. I won't have it, 
Maria. Were you iri a fit state of health ta be knocking about, you 
might do it ; but you shair certainly not, as it is.*' 
-It was his selfrreproach that was caiising his angry tone; very 
keenly. at itbat. nM)iiyient^ was it making itsdlf heard: Atid Maria's 
spirits wetie not that day equal to sharpness of speech. It told upon 
her, and ishe^but^ into teftPS;- 

T How iteiribly the sigsis of distress vexed him, nd wdrds could tell. 
He took them as a tacit ^ i<eproach to himself. And they were so : 
however unintentional on hep part inch reproaeh might be. 

"Maria^I woiif*t havis this; I can't bear it," he cried, his voice 
hoarse with eftiotion. ** If yon show this temper, this childish sor- 
row before mey I shall rtiiiaway;*^' 

He could iravb' cot his totigike out for so speaking-i— for his stinging 
vfords ; fbr • their* stinging^ tone. *^ Teftiper ! Childish sorrow !" 
G^eorge chafed at himself in his self-condemnation : he chat^d— he 
knew how uujustljM^at Maria.i ' 

VeryjT«pyKnnju6tly. 'She' had not annoyed him with reproaches, 
with 1 complaints, as some wives woald have done ; she had Hot, to 
him^ shown symptoms of the grief that was wearing out her heart. 
She hadbeenaili^onsid^ateto him, bearing up braVely wfaeHev^' he 
was at Prior's Ash. Even now, as she dried away the rebellious 
tears, she would mot let him think they were being shed for the lost 
happiness of the past, but murmured some feeble e^nse about a 
heaoacheu ■ ^'<:^i-"'' -"•'■ -- •■= ' -',' ■■■i' • ■■•■ ■' •^''<-' • ''-' 

He saw thtbugh the fdnd deceit V be saW all the gen^^rosity; and 
thered sbamo fridn^died^n his fair face as he bent down to hei", and 
his voice ^^diaBfffed^tO'bne of the deepest tenderness. 

^^SMlL hav6 lost yott this hwn«e, Maria, I wiU get yoii another," he 
whispered. ' "? Only give me a lifetle^time. * * Don't grieve before me if 
you can help it,^iBy darling: it is- as though you rkn a knife into my 
very soulv i<o«n bear the Imsdiabtise of the whole wdrld; better than 
one aileiit rq[)rd^h#om yoti.'*' ' 

f And *-tbe sw^et^ words cftnle t5 her As a prefeions balm. However 
bitter had beenthe'^ockofthat^iietude aWaking, she loved him fondly 
still. ' It may be, tliat nhe loved htm only the mfore^ for the passions 
of the human > heart lare ijnayirard and wilful, utterly uiiamenable to 
contrc^.-'^ ''■ •'^i-^'".''^ f h:j'r.i:( V. 'i '.' .• t^ r^ .1 ■ ■ ■' ■:■ 

'Margery cam©^into th^ room 'with h^ hands atid arms full. Gheorge 
mayhavie^beeriglad of the divertisementj' and he turned upon her, his 
voiceTesumrng its ab^.'^ What's the ^meaning of this, Margery? I 
come ufp here and I -find yottr mistiness packing' and lugging boxes 
abotttwCJaU'tyofiiisee to these things P*^ - - 

Mai^ryiwasw droits as Geotge that day, alid her answer in its 
sharpness might have rivalled his. Direct reproof Margery had never 
presumed to •osflPer' %er mastet*, though irhe would have liked to do it 
ama2singly ^ for not i^ single ootM^mner ^held a mote exaggerated view 
of Mr. Gl-edrge's*p&st delrnquen^eii than she. 

*^ 1 can't h^ in ten places at once^ And I can't do the work of ten 

Z%« Shadow of Ashlydyat 2 7 

people. K jQn kaow them that ean, sir, you'tl better get 'em here in 
my place." > . , > . - 

'^ Did I not afik you if you 8houl4 waot asaistanoe in the packing, 
and you told me thf^ y<^u should not P* ' retorted Gieorge. 

"No more I don't* was ; the answer. "I^an do all the 
packing that is to do here, if I am let alone, and allowed to take my 
own^time^and doitiin my own.way« Inall.that eisMfflingand changing 
of houses when my Lady Godolphin cboi^Q to move Ashlydyat^a thuigs^ 
to the Folly, and when they had to be moved back afteil^arda in ac^- 
cordaDqe.witb 3ir ,Qiepi?ge's< will, wbo^did thew^best part x>f the packing 
and saw. to everything, but me ? It would be odd if I couldn't put up 
a few gowns.and shirts, but I must be talked to about, help:!" ; 

Poor Margery was^ evidently in an explosive temper. TSrae back 
Georgawputdhayep^t her down with a haughty woi^ of authority 
or with joking mockery, as the humour might hare taken him i< H6 did 
not torday. Tkere; had been wrong inflicted upon Margerjr; andiit 
may be that he wa8> feeling it. She had lost tiie poor savings of years 
— •the:S«»y8 had not allowed them. ta be great ones ; shie had lost the 
money bequeathed to her by Mrs. Glod<riphiti. All had been in the 
bank, and all had gone. In addition to thisf there were persoaal dis- 
comfortn. M&rgGrj found the work of a common servant thrown upon 
her in Uer ojid age: an under girl, Sarah, was her only help now at the 
bank^ and Margery alone w^uld follow their fallen fortunes to these^ 
lodgings.,- . : ., ... . . .... ■. i .'./ >-^ ■'! ..• :. - 

''Do please," was all Gborge said, f' But your nuatress shall* 
not. meddle with it.'? V > -. .< i . *• 

" If my mistress chooses to set on and get to work behind my baok^> 
I can't stop it. . She* kwowa there's no need to do itf Jf you'ii be so 
good, ma'am," turning to her mistress, ''as just left things alone and 
leave 'em to me, you'll find, they'll be done. What'e a^i^^w bits of 
clothes to p^ck?" indignantly repeated Margery. -*And there's 
nothing ,^lse that.we ^lay ^ke. Jf I was to put up but: a pair of sheets 
or a tin dishrcover, I should be ealled a thief, I suppose/' > ■' 

There lay thp great grievance of M^rgery'a present mood— >that all 
the things, save the "few bits of clothes,^^' must berleft behind^ 
Margery, for all ber criistiness and her out-spok^i temper,- was a most 
faithfuUy-attacbed, servant^ and it may be questioned if she did not ddel 
the abandoning of th^ir goods in a keener degree than did even Maria 
and Qeorge. Tl^e things w^e not heiB: every article of her owo, even 
to a silver cream-jug, which had been the boasted treasure of hear life, 
she had been* allowed to retain^; even, to the little wprknbox< of white 
satin-wood, wiUi it^f landscape , on. the lid, the trees of wbieh , Miss 
Meta had b^n permitted tp paint red^ and the ^ttage bluew Not an 
artiole of Margery's but she pould remove ; all was > sacred to her : but 
in her fiddity she did resent bitterly the having to leave the property 
of her master and mistress, the not being at liberty to padi up so much 
asa "tiadiah*^oyer.'' - . ., r; 

Maria# debatredlrom assisting, wandered in her reatlestti^ess through 
some of tha .more &miliar rooms. It was well that she^ should pa)r 
them a farewell visit. From the bedroom where the iMMkiiig was 
going on, to George'a dressing-room^ thenoe to her own sitting^ro^m, 


82 The Slmdow of AMydyat, 

thence to the drawing-room, all on that floor. She lingered in alL A 
home sanctified by years of happiness cannot be quitted without re- 
gret, even when exchanged at pleasure for another ; but to turn out 
of it in humiliation, in poverty, in hopel^sness, is a trial of the sharpest 
and sorest kind. Apart from the pain, the feeling was a strange one. 
The objects crowding these rooms ; the necessary furniture costly and 
substantial; the elegant ornaments of various shapes and sorts, the 
chaste works of art, not necessary but so luxurious and charming, had 
hitherto been their own, hers in conjunction with her husband's. They 
might have done what they pleased with them. Had she broken that 
Wedgewood vase, there was no one to call her to account for it ; had 
she or George chosen to make a present of that rare basket in 
medallion, with its speaking likenesses of the beauties of the whilom 
gay Prench court, there was nobody to say them nay ; had they felt 
disposed to change that fine piano for a different one, the liberty to 
do BO was theirs. They had been the owners of these surroundings, 
the master and mistress of the house and its contents. And now ? 
Not a sole article belonged to them : they were but tenants on suffer- 
ance : the things remained, but their right in them had passed away. 
If she dropped and broke only that pretty trifle which her hand was 
touching now, she must answer for the mishap. The feeling, I say, 
was a strange one. 

She walked through the rooms with a dry eye and hot brow. Tears 
seemed long ago to have gone away from her. It is true she had been 
surprised into a few that day, but the lapse was unusual. Why 
slfbuld she make this farewell to the rooms ? she began asking her- 
self. She needed it not to remember them. Visions of the past 
came crowding upon her memory; of this or the other happy day 
spent in them : of the gay meetings when they had received the world, 
of the sweet home hours when she had sat there alone with him of 
whom she had well-nigh made an idol — her husband. Mistaken 
idolatry, Mrs. George Gt)doiphin! mistaken, useless, vain idolatry. 
Was there ever an earthly idol yet that did not mock its worshipper? 
I know of none. We make an idol of our child, and the time comes 
when it will turn round to sting ns : we make an idol of the god or 
goddess of our paseriosmte love, and how does it end P 

Maria sat down and leaned her head upon her hand, thinking more 
of the past than of the future. She was getting to have less hope in 
the future than was good for her : it is a bad sign when a sort of 
apathy with regard to rt steals over us ; a proof that the mind is not 
in the healthy state that it ought to be. A time of trial, of danger, 
was approaching for Maria, and she seemed to contemplate the possi- 
bility of her sinking under it with strange calmness. A few months 
back, the bare glance at such a fear would have unhinged her : she 
would have clung to her husband and Meta and sobbed out her pas- 
sionate prayer to Ood in her dire distress, not to be taken from them. 
Things had changed : the world in which she had been so happy had 
lost its charm for her ; the idol in whose arms she had sheltered her- 
sdf turned out not to have been of pure gold : and Maria G-odolphin 
began to realise the forcible truth of the words of the wise King of 
JermBalem— -that the world and its dearest hopes are but vanity. 

The S/iodaw of Ashfydyat 29 



Mbs. Chaslottb Paxbt, in her looped-up petticoats and nicely- 
fitting kid boots, waa tnpping jauntily through the streets of Priar'a- 
Ash. Mrs. Fain had been somewhat vacillating in regard to her de- 
parture isQia that long-familiar town ; she had reconsidered her deter- 
mination of quitting it so abruptly ; and on the day she went out of 
IJady Godolphin's Folly, she entered on some stylish lodgings in the 
heart of Prior's Ash. Only for a week or two ; just to give her time 
to take proper leave of her friends, she said : but the weeks had gone 
on and on, .and Charlotte was there yet. 

Society had been glad to keep Charlotte. Society of course shuta 
ita lofty ears to the ill-natured tales spread by low-bred people : that 
isy when it finds it convenient to do so. Society had been pleased to 
be deaf to any little obscure tit-bits of scandal which had made vul- 
garly iree with Charlotte's name: and as to the vague rumours con- 
necting Mr. Yerrall with Gborge Godolphin'a ruin, nobody knew: 
whether that was not pure scandal too. But if not, whyr^Mrs. Pain 
could not be justly reflected on for the faults of Mr. Vermll. So 
Charlotte was as popular and dashing in her hired rooms as ahe had 
been at Lady Grodolphin's Polly, and she had remained in them ontil 

But now she was really going. This was the last day of her sojourn 
at Prior's Ash, and Charlotte was ifalking about unceremoniously,, 
bestowing her farewells on anybody who would receive them. It 
almost seemed as if she had only waited to witness the removal from 
the bank of Mr. and Mrs. George Godolphin. 

She walked along in ezubemnt spirits, nodding her head to every- 
body : up at windows, in at doorways, to poo? people on foot, to rich 
ones in carriages ; her good-natured smile was everywhere. She 
rushed into shops and chatted familiarly, and woA'the shopkeepers' 
hearts by asking if they were not sorry to lose her. She was turning: 
out of one when she came pop on the Hector of All Souls', Charlotte's 
petticoats went down in a swimming reverence. 

^ I am paying my £[irewell visits, Mr. Hastings. , Prior^s Ash will, 
be rid of me to-morrow." 

Not an answering smile crossed the rector's face : it was colli, im^. 
passive, haughtily civil : almost as if he were thinking thsJi Prior's 
Ash might have been none the worse, had it been rid of Mrs. Char<* 
lotte Pain before. ' . 

" How is Mrs. Ha^iii^s to-day F" asked Charlotte, 

" Sha'is not welL" 

'^ No ! I must try and get a minute to call in on her. Adieu .£(Hr 
the present. I shall see you again, I hope." 

Down sunk ithe skirts once more, and the rector libfted his faiat in 
silence. In the ultra politeness, in the spiee of sauciness gleamingr 
out from her flashing ey^s, the rector read iiu^ipient defiance. But 
if Mrs. Pain feared iSiAt h/^ might be intending to favour he^ with a 

30 The Shadow of Ashlydyat. 

little public clerical censure, she was entirely mistaken. The rector 
washed his hands of Mrs. Pain, as Lady G-odolphin did of her stepson, 
Mr. George. He walked on, condemnation and scorn lighting his 

Charlotte walke4 on : and burst into a laugh as she did so. '' Was 
he afraid to forbid my calling at the rectory P" she asked herself. 
" He would have liked to, I know. I'll go there now." 

She was not long reaching it. But Isaac was the only one of the 
family she got to see. He came to her charged with Mrs. Hastings's 
compliments — she felt unequal to seeing Mrs. Pain. 

" What's the matter with her P" inquired Charlotte, suspecting the 
validity of the excuse. 

" She is never very well now," was the somewhat evasive answer: 
and Isaac, though civilly courteous, was as cold as his father. ^' When 
do you say you leave us, Mrs. Pain ?" 

" To-morrow morning. And you ? I heard you were going to 
London. Xou have found some situation there, Gheorge G-odolphin 
told me." 

Isaac threw his eyes — they were just like the rector's — straight and 
full into her face. Charlotte's were dancing with a variety of expres- 
sions, but the chief one was good-humoured mischief. 

" I am going into a bank in Lombard-street. Mr. Gt)dolphin 
got me in." 

" Tou won't like it," said Charlotte. 

" I dare say not. But I think myself lucky to get it." 

^^ There'll be one advantage," continued Charlotte, good naturedly 
— " that you can come and see us. You know Mrs. Verrall's address. 
Come as often as you can ; every Sunday if you like ; any week-day 
evening : I'll promise you a welcome beforehand." 

" You are very kind," briefly returned Isaac. They were walking 
slowly to the gate, and he held it open for her. 

'^ What'3 Eeginald doing P" she asked. '* Have you heard from him 

" Not very lately. You are aware that he is in London under a 
master of navigation, preparatory to passing for second officer. As 
soon as he has passed, ne will be going te sea again." 

" When you write to him, give him our address, and tell him te 
come and see me. And now good-by," added Charlotte, heartily. 
" And mind you don't show yourself a muff, Mr. Isaac, but come and 
see us. Do you hear?" 

'' I hear," said Isa«c, smiling as he thawed te her good humour. 
" I wish you a pleasant journey, Mrs. Pain." 

" Merci bien. If— r — I say, is that Grace ?" 

Charlotte had cast her eyes to the rectory's upper windows. Mrs. 
Akeman, her baby in her arms— a great baby, getting, now — stood at 

^' She is spending the afternoon with us," explained Isaac. 

" And wouldn't come down to me !" retorted Charlotte. " She's 
very polite. Tell her so from me, Isaac Good-by." 

The church clock boomed out five as Charlotte passed it, and she 
came to a stand-still of consideration. It was the hour at which she 
had ordered her dinner to be ready. 

Tht Shadow ofAshlydyat 31 

" Bother dinner!" decided she. " I can't go home for that. I 
want to go and see if they are in their lodgings yet. Is that you, 
Mrs. Bond?" 

Sure enough, Mrs. Bond had come into view, and was halting to 
boh down to Charlotte. Her face looked pale tod pindhedl There 
had been no supply of strong waters to^ay. 

" I be a'most starring^ ma*am," said she. *' I be a Widting hfere to 
eatch the parson, for Pre been to hi6 house, and they says he's out. I 
dunioiow as it's of any good seeing of him, i^thei^. 'Tain't much as 
he have got to give away now." 

" I am aboQit to leare, Mrs; Bond," cried OhaJrlbtte, in her' ftefe and 
communicative humour. » . t 

" More's the ill luck, and I have heered on't," resjJOnded Mrs. 
Bondv " Everybody as is good to us poor goes away, or dies, or fails, 
or sum'at. There'll be soon nalight'leffc for us but the Work'us. 
Many^B the odd bit o*^ silver you have give me^^at tito(3s, tiiiji'ain." 

" So I have," said Charlotte,' laughing. ** What if I wfere tb give 
you this, as a farewell remembrance ?" 

She took « half-sovereign out of her pur^ and heH it up. Mrs. 
Bond gasped : tite luck seemed too great to bef Realised. ' > ' 

" Here, you m^ have it," said Charlotte, dropping it into, the 
shaking axid xifrty hand held out. " But yoii know you nre- Nothing 
but an old sinner, Mrs. Bond." ' 

" I knows I be," humbly acqui^sc^d Mi*S; iSond. «*Taiid't of no 
good denying of it to you, ma'am : you be up to things.", 

Cfaariotte^ laughed; ^ YouHl go and changethis at the nieztrest gin- 
shop, and you'U reel into bed to-night blindfold. Thafs the only 
good you?ll:d0 with it. There ! don't slay I quitted Priot^s Ash, for- 
gettingyou." . > / , : ' 

Sh^ walked on rapidly, leaving Mrs. fiond in her ecstasy of delight 
to waste her thanks on i^d empty air. *rhe Ipdgiiigii. George had 
taken wete^atiiie opposite end of ^e town, nteatei^ to A^i^^^ and 
to them Charlotte was bound. They were not on the high road, but 
in a quiet aide labe. The hot^i^, low tind douimodioiis, and bmlt in the 
cottage Bi^le, stood in the midst of a ^rddtictite gkrd^i A ittitXi. 
grass-plat and some flowers were before the front windows, but the 
rest orif die ^Und was £lied with fruit and tegetables. Charlotte 
opened the gfeen gate and walked' up the ^th, Which led direct to the 
house;-^' > ^-- ■' "• /. 

The front door was open to a small hall, and' Cbai36tte went in, 
finding hei* way, and tumdd to a room on the left: a cheerfhl/ good- 
sized, old-fashioned parlouri'With a green toatpet/itod pihk flowers on 
its walls. There stood Mai'g^, laying out soipe teacups and some 
bread-and^iitt<e^. ^ Her eyes opened at the sight of Mrs. 

" Are they ooiMf yet^ Margery P" 

" No," was Margery's short answer. " They'll be here in half an 
hour, mayb»j.ttnii that'll be befbre I want 'em^ — ^with all the rooms and 
everythhig t6 see to- and only me to do it." 

" Is that all you are going to jgive them fbr te^ P" cned Charlotte, 
looking^ cdntsBdptuoitsly on the bread-and-butter. ^ I sbotLld surprise 
them with a little dainty di^h or two on the table. It would look 
cheering : and they might soon be cooked." 

May — ^YOL. oxxviii. no. dix. d 

32 (Eke Shadow of A^iydyat. 

" I dare say they might, where there's oonveniences and time," wrath- 

fully returned Mai^gery, who* relished Mrs. Pain's interference as little 

as she relished her presence. '^ The kitchen we are to have is abont as 

big as a rat-hole, and my hands m« full enough this evening without 

'dancing out to buy meats, and trying if the grate '11 cook 'em." 

'' Of course you will light the fire here," said Charlotte, turning' to 
ithe grate. " I see it is laid." 

" It's not cold," grunted Margery. 

*'But the fire will be like a pleasant welcome. I'll do it myself." 

She caught up a box of matches which stood on the mantelpiece, and 
'set fire to the fagots underneath the coal. Margerys took no notice 
one way or the other. The fire in a fair way of burning, Charlotte 
hastened from the house, and Margery breathed freely again. 

Not for long. A short-space, and Charlotte was back, again, acoom- 

•pamied by sundry parcels. There was a renowned comestible- shop in 

rrior's Ash, and Charlotte bad been ransacking it. She had'also beoi 

home for a small parcel on her own account : but that did not contain 


Taking off her doa^ and bonnet, she made herself at home. Criti- 
cally surveying the bedrooms ; visiting the kitchen to see that the 
kettle boiled ; lighUug the himp on the tea-table, for it was dark then ; 
demanding an unlimited supply of plates, and driving Margery nearly 
wild with her audacity. But Charlotte was doing it all in good feel- 
iing, in her desire to render this new asylum bright>looking at the 
moment of their taking possession of it ; to cheat the first entrance of 
-some of its bitterness for Maria. Whatever may have been Mrs. 
-.Charlotte Bain's faults-— and Margery, for one, gave her credit for 
•plenty — she was capable of generous impulses. It is probable that in 
the days gone by, a feeling of jealousy, of spite, had rankled . in her 
heart against George Godolphin's wife : but that had worn itself out ; 
Iliad been finally lost in the sorrow felt for Maria since the misfortuneB 
;had fallen. When the fly drove up to the door, and Greorge broaght 
in his wife and Meta, the bright room, the well-laden tea-table greeted 
.their surprised eyes, and Charlotte waa advancing with open-hands. 

" I thought you'd like to see somebody here to get things comfort- 
able for you, and I knew that cross-grained Margery would have 
enough to do between the boxes and her temper," she cried, taking 
Maria's hands. " How are you, Mr. George?" 

George found his tongue. " This is kind of you, Mrs. Pain." 

Maria felt that it uxis kind : and in her tide of gratitude, as her hand 
lay in Charlotte's warm grasp, she almost forgot that cruel calumny. 
Not quite: it could not be quite forgotten, even momentarily, until 
eartii and its passions should have passed away. 

" And mademoiselle ?" continued Charlotte. Mademoiselle, little 
gourmande that she was, was raised on her toes, surveying the table 
with curious eyes. Charlotte lifted her in her arms, and held up to 
her view a glass jar, something inside it the eoloor of pale amber. 
" This is for good children, this is." 

"That's me," responded Meta, smacking her lips. "What is it ?" 

"It's — ^let me read the label—it's pine-apple jelly. And that's boned 
fowl; and that's g^tine de veau; and that's p4te de kpereau auz 
truffes — ^if you understand what it all means, petite marmotte. And 

The Shadow of AMydyat 33 

— there— you can look at everything and find out for yourself," con- 
cluded Charlotte. " I am going to show mamma her hedroom." 

It opened from the sitting-room: a commodious arrangement, as 
Charlotte observed, in case of illness. Maria cast her eyes round it, 
and saw a sufficiently comfortable chamber. It was not their old 
Inxorious chambei^ at the bank : but luxuries and they must part com- 
pany now. 

"Look here," said Charlotte, dropping her voice to a whisper. 

She was pointing with her finger to the chest of drawers. Placed 
back, the only object on its white covering, was the miniature red 
trunk which Maria had given into her charge in the summer. 

" Oh, thank you ! Thank you greatly for taking care of it, Mrs. 

" It is safe here now. You and the enemy have parted company. 
Though it were heaped full of diamonds, they'd not come and look after 
thmn here. Isitp" 

" What ? Full of diamonds f " Maria shook her liead. " Indeed, 
I told you truth, Mrs. Pain, when I said there was nothing in it of 
value. It contains but a few letters and papers, and a lock or two of 
my dead children's hair." 

*^JiL'deedr* exclaimed Charlotte, with a sweetly innocent look. 
"Then you and I are difierent, Mrs. Greorge Godolphin. Were the 
like calamity to happen to my-i husband — if I had one— I should con- 
sider it a pfaiseworthy virtue to save all I could from the grasp of the 
[filers. Come along. We ^shall have Meta going into all the good 

Charktte reigned at the head of the table that night, triumphantly 
gay. Margery waited with a stiffened neck and pursed-up lips. No- 
thing more: there were no other signs of rebellion. Margery had had 
her say out with that one memorable communication, and from thence- 
forth her lips were closed for ever. Did the woman repent of having 
Bpck&i ?— did she now think it better to have let doubt be doubt ? It 
is hard to aay. She had made no further objection to Mrs. Pain in 
words ; she intended to make none. If that lady filled Miss Meta to 
bursting to-night with the pine-ap^e jelly and the boned fowl, and the 
other things wil^ unpronounceable names, which Margery regarded as 
rank poison when regaling Miss Meta, she should not interfere. The 
sin might lie on her master and miititress's head. 

It wa& "dose upon ten when Charlotte rose to go. She put on her 
things, and bent over Maria in greeting. " Take care of yourself, Mrs. 
George," she said, in a kindly tone. " Now that the worst is over, 
things will soon come round again. And if you should find it conve- 
nient to get rid of Meta for a bit, send her up to me. I'll take great 
care of her." 

Margery stood with the door open. George was taking down his 

**:! prptest arid declare you shall not, Mr. George Godolphin !" ex- 
claimed Charlotte, divining his intention of seeing her home. "Do 
you suppose I am going to take you from your wife, the first evening 
she is in this strange place ?" 

** Do you suppose I .am going to let you be run away with in the 

D 2 

34 The Shadow of Ashlydyat 

dangerous streets of Prior's Asb ?" returned Greorge, with laughing 

'* I'll guard against that," returned Charlotte. ^' I am old enough 
to take care of myself." 

" Why, I should not be away ten minutes.'* 

" Xow, you know when I say a thing, I mean it," said Charlotte, 
in a peremptory tone. " You are not going with me, Mr. Geoi^. I 
have a reason for wishing to go home by myself. There." 

George could only yield. Charlotte mid spoken still in her kindness 
to Maria. In spite of her own attractive presence, Maria's spirits 
were lower than they might have been : and Charlotte generously left 
her the society of her husband. As to walking through the streets of 
Prior's Ash alone, or through any other streets, Charlotte had no 
foolish fears, but would as soon go through them by night as by day. 

As a proof of this, she did not proceed direct homewards, but turned 
up a road that led to the railway. She had no objection to a stroll 
that moonlight night, and she had a fancy for seeing what passengers 
the ten o'clock train brought, which was just in. 

It brought none. INTone that Charlotte could see : and she was pre- 
paring to turn back on the dull road, when a solitary figure came 
looming on her sight in the distance. He was better than nobody, 
regarding him in Charlotte's social point of view : but he appeared to 
be advanced in years. She could see so much before he came up. 

Charlotte strolled on, gratifying her curiosity by a good stare. A 
tall, portly man, with a fresh colour and snow-white hair. She was 
passing by him, when he lifted his face, which had been bent, and 
turned it towards her. The recognition was mutual, and she darted 
up to him, and gave his hand a hearty shake. It was Mr. Crosse. 

" Good gracious me ! We all thought you never meant to come 
back again I" 

" And I'd rather not have come back, Mrs. Pain, than come to hear 
what I am obliged to hear. I went streaming off for weeks from Pau, 
where I was staying, a confounded, senseless tour into Spain, leaving 
no orders for letters to be sent to me, and so I heard nothing. What 
has brought about this awful calamity ?" 

" What calamity ?" asked Charlotte — ^knowing perfectly well all 
the while. 

" What calamity !" repeated Mr. Crosse, who was rapid in speech 
and hot in temper. " The failure of the bank — ^the Godolphins' ruin. 
What else ?" 

" Oh, that !" slightingly returned Charlotte. " That's stale news 
now. Polks are forgetting it. Queen Anne's dead." 

" What brought it about ?" reiterated Mr. Crosse, neither the words 
nor their tone pleasing him. 

" What does bring such things about ?" rejoined Charlotte. " Want 
of money, X suppose. Or bad management." 

" But there was no want of money ; there was no bad management 
in the Godoljuhins' house," raved Mr. Crosse, becoming excited. " I 
wish yoii'd not play with my feelings, Mrs. Pain." 

" Who is playing with them ?" cried Charlotte. " If it was not 
want of money^ if it was not bad management, I don't know what else 
it was." 

The Shadow of Ashlydyat. 35 

"I was told in London, as I came through it, that George Godol- 
phin has been playing up old Eosemary witn everything, and thait 
Yerrall has helped him,'* continued Mr. Crosse. 

"Folks will talk," said bold Charlotte. "I was told— it was the 
current report in Prior's Ash — ^that the stoppage had occurred through 
Mr. Crosse drawing his money out of the concern." 

" "What an unfounded assertion !" exclaimed that gentleman, in 
choler. "Prior's Ash ought to have known better." 

"So ought those who tell you rubbish about George Godolphih 
and Verrall," coolly affirmed Charlotte. 

" Where's Thomas Godolphin ?" 

" A-t Ashlydyat. He's in luck. My Lord Averil his bought it all 
in as it stands, and Mr. Godolphin remains in it." 

" He is iU, I hear ?" . 

" Pretty near de^d, I hear," retorted Charlotte. " My lord is to 
marry Miss Cecilia." 

" And where's that wicked George?" 

" If you call names, I won't answer you anothei* word, Mr. Crosse.^' 

" I suppose you don't like to hear it," he returned in so pointed a 
manner that Charlotte might have felt it as a lance-shafb. •* Well, 
where is he ?" 

" Just gone into lodgings with his wife and Margery and Meta. 1 
have bee^ taking tea with them. They left the bank to-day." 

Mj. Crosse stood, nodding his head in the mobnlight, and com- 
muning alpud with himself. " And so — and sd — it is all a smash 
together! It w as bad as was said." 

" It couldn't be worse," cried Charlotte. " Prior's Ash won't hold 
up its head for many a day. It's no longer wotth living in. I leave 
it for good to-morrow." 

" Poor Sir George ! It's a good thing he was in his grave. Lord 
Averil could have prosecuted George, I hear." 

" Were I to hear to-morrow that I could be prosecuted for ststnding 
here and talking to you to-night, I shouldn't wonder," was the answer. 

" What on earth did Jie do with the money ? What went with it ?*' 

" Eeport runs that he founded a cluster of almshouses with it," 
said Charlotte, demurely. " Ten old women, who are to be found in 
coals and red cloaks, and half-a-crown a week." 

The words angered him beyond everything. Nothing could have 
been more serious than his mood; nothing could savour of levity, of 
mockery, more than hers. "^Report runs that he has been giving 
fabulous prices for horses to make presents of," angrily retorted Mr. 
Crosse, in a tone of pointed significance. 

" Not a bit of it," returned undaunted Charlotte. ** He only gave 

" Good night to you, Mrs. Pain," came the next woi*ds, haughty 
and abruptly ; and Mr. Crosse turned to continue his way. 

Leaving Charlotte standing there. No other passengers came 
down from the station : there were none to come : and sHid tttrned to 
retrace her steps to the town. She walked slowly and ttioved her 
head from side to side, as if she would take in all the familiar features 
of the landscape by way of a farewell in anticipation of the morrow ; 
which was to close her residence at Prior's Ash for ever. 


( 36 ) 



Evening approaches : the all-tired Earth 
Prepares for rest, and with a low still voice 
Praises her gfreat Creator, who hath given 
A time for all things : after day the night. 
And after toil the blessings of repose* 

Apollo lingering leaves his favourite boy, 
Bright-haired young Hyacinth,* whose violet eyes 
Are dull with sleep, yet witli a loving glance 
Turns he towards the Sun-God as he smiles 
A last farewell to the half-slumbering. Earth. 
Grandly he falls ! The red oaks gleam with gold. 
And the white heaving bosom of the sea 
Floats in a liquid amber ; majesty 
Sits on the face of Nature, ere she doffs 
The day-robes of her gorgeous sovereignty 
Eor the grey silvered vestments of the night I 
The dew-wet apple-blossoms, robed in pink, 
Sweet-scent the misty night-haze, the white pear 
Closes her fragrant treasures from the kiss 
Of the enamoured South- wind, who anon 
Steals from her snowy riches some small store. 
And scatters perfume on the willing breeze. 
Bathed in a flush of purple gleam the hills. 
Their red crests showing 'gainst the brighter sky 
Superbly beautiful ; the pine-trees bend 
To the slow-coming night-breeze, and around 
Rest the white flocks — O God, how beauteous-fair 
The tranquil calm thou spreadest o'er the Night. 

An English sundown ! Lives there on tliis earth 

A scene of truer beauty ? Brighter far 

May blaze the splendour of an orient sky 

In amethyst and opal, but to us. 

To tis, blessed sons of England — God be thanked !- 

Gives he alone from his Almighty hand 

These scenes of truest Beauty, truest Peace ! 

* The>iBetaphor is applied to the sun-rays falling on the blue hyacinth beds. 

( 37 ) 



MiGHELET pauses in his narrative of the Sicilian Vespers to remark oa 
the fate of Sicily for ages— ever the milch-cow, drained tboth of milk and 
blood by a foreign master. In her bosom it is^ he reminds us, that all 
the great quarrels of the world haTC beea deeidedr— Athens and Syracuse, 
Greece and Carthage, Carthage and Rome, have made her their battle- 
field ; and there too the servile waxs were fought out. All these solemn 
battles of mankind, he says, ^'have been contested within sight of Etna 
— like the 'Judgment of God' before the altar." Then came the 
Barbarians,-^ Arabs, Normans, Germans. £aeh time that Sicily formed 
a hope and desire, each time she was summoned to suffer: she turned, 
and then back again to the same side, like Enceladusr under the volcano. 
Such, according to the French historian, are the '^ weaknees and incurable 
irreconciiableness " of a people composed of a score of races, and so 
heavily oppressed by the double fatality of history and climate. In fact, 
he asserts^ that the only hours Sicily ever had of independence and healthy 
existence were under her tyrants, the Dienysnisee and Gelons of old; by 
whom alone^ too, she was rendered f or mtdikUe abroad.* 

So again Mr. Leigh Hunt* opens a chapter of Glances at ancient 
Sicilian history, and biography, with some remarks on the fate of the fair 
island, which, being one of those small, beautiful, and abundant countries 
which excite the cupidity of largw ones, has had as many foreign nuisters 
as the poor Princess of Babylon, in Boccacio, who, on her way to be 
married to the King of Colchos, fell into the hands of nine husbands. 
Leontius gives a pleasantly particularised catalogue raisonne of the lead- 
ing celebrities of Sicily, in the old, old times, from Bhalaris of the bull^ 
and Stesichorus of the lyre, and Damocles of the sword, to Marcellus and 
Yerres. Of course, an item or two in the list are appropriated to the 
Dionysiuses and their associates. And thus the Elder of the tyranti 
figures on the gossiping roll of names : 

"Dionysius, tyrant of Syracuse (the Elder). He wrote had verses; 
slept in a bed with a trench round it, and a drawbridge; and, for fear of 
a barber, burnt away his- beard with hot walnuttshells. What a razor! 
Dionysius had abilities enough to become the mere hatful for his 
caprieioiis and detestable qualities. Probably he had a ispioe of madness 
in him, which power exasperated. Ariosto has turned him to fine account 
in his personification of Suspicion*" 

Other itenas, that deal indirectly with his migesty, are the following: 

'* Damon and Pythias^ the famous friends* One of ihem became surety 
to DionyeiflS'for toe other? s- appearance at the scaffold, and was not dis- 
appointed. Dionystus begged to be admitted a third in the partnership! 
— 4be most ridioakas things perhapSy>that even the tyrant ever did; 

'^Dfflnooles,' thei courtly geotleman, who pronounced Dionysius the 
happiest man on earth. He was treated by his master to a ' proof of the 

* SeeMichelei, Franee, t. iiL L v. ch. i« 

38 Dionysius the Elder. 

pudding ' which tyrants eat. He sat crowned at the head of a luxurious 
banquet, in the midst of odours, music, and homage; and saw, suspended 
by a hair over his head, a naked sword. This, it must be confessed, was 
a happy thought of the royal poet — a practical epigram of the very finest 

^' Plato ; who visited both the Dionysiuses, to induce them to become 
philosophers! He might as well have asked tigers in a sheepfold to 
prefer a dish of green peas."* 

The conduct and fortunes of the elder Dionysius are referred to by Mr. 
Stuart Mill, as a standard illustration, from that history which men call 
philosophy teaching by example, of the successive stages of the ^'despot's 
progress." Here, too, he observes,t the avenging Nemesis attends ; but, 
as usual with the misdeeds of rulers, the punishment is vicarious: — the 
younger Dionysius, a '' weak and self-indulgent, but good-natured and 
rather well-meaning inheritor of despotic power," having to suffer the 
penalty of the usurpation and the multiplied tyrannies of his energetic 
and unscrupulous father. 

Mr. Grote's portrait of the latter, is that of a man all whose appetites 
were merged in the love of dominion, at home and abroad; and of money 
as a means of dominion : to the service of which master passion all his 
energies were devoted, together with those vast military resources which 
an unscrupulous ability served both to accumulate and to recruit. How 
the tyrant's treasury was supplied, with the large exigencies continually 
pressing upon it, we are but little informed. We know, however, that 
his exactions from the Syracusans were exorbitant ; that he did not 
hesitate to strip the holiest temples ; and that he left behind him a great 
reputation for ingenious tricks in extracting money from his subjects. 

" Both the vague general picture, and the fragmentary details which 
come before us, of his conduct towards the Syracusans, present to us 
nothing but an oppressive and extortionate tyrant, by whose fiat number- 
less victims perished ; more than ten thousand, according to the general 
language of Plutarch. He enriched largely his younger brothers and 
auxiliaries ; among which latter, Hipparinus stood prominent, thus re- 
covering a fortune e^ual to or larger than that which his profligacy had 
dissipated. But we hear also of acts of Dionysius, indicating a jealous 
and cruel temper, even towards near relatives."^ 

This, indeed, is a salient point in the tyrant's character. For it 
appears certain, as the historian amply shows, that Dionysius trusted no 
one — iriarevKop ovbevi, are Plato's own words ; that though in the field 
he was a perfectly brave man, yet his suspicion and timorous anxiety as 
to every one who approached his person, were carried to the most 
tormenting excess, and extended even to his wives, his brothers, his 
daughters. " Afraid to admit any one with a razor near to his face, he 
18 said to have singed his own beard with a burning coal. Both his 
brother and his son were searched for concealed weapons, and even forced 
to change their clothes in the presence of his guards, before they were 
permitted to see him." We are told, too, of an officer of the guards, 
named Marsyas, who dreamed that he was assassinating Dionysius, being 

♦ A Jar of Honey from Mount Hybla, pp. 29 tq, 

f Mill's Dissertations and Discussions in Philosophy, ftc, vol. ii. p. 513. 

I Grote, History of Greece, vol. xL part ii. ch. IzzziiL 

Dionysius the Elder, 39 

put to death for this dream, as proving that his waking thoughts must 
have heen dwelling upon such a project. Other examples of the like 
tragical freaks are to be read of in Plutarch, and in the anecdotes re- 
counted by Cicero in his Tusculan Disputations and elsewhere. That 
about his brother Leptines, for instance, who was one day describing the 
situation of a place, and took a spear from one of the guards to trace the 
plan ; a liberty which scandalised Dionysius beyond measure-^and the 
result of which was the execution of the soldier who had parted with his 
spear for a few seconds, to oblige Leptines, and aid in the topographical 
demonstrations of that too demonstrative kinsman. Dionysius owned 
himself afraid of the sense and sagacity of his friends, because he knew 
that with sense and sagacity to put this and that together, to make de- 
ductions and draw comparisons, they could not but think it more eligible 
to rule than to be ruled, to govern than to obey. Their stolid ignorance 
would have been his bliss: in more instances than one or two, it was 
their folly to be wise. 

Appian tells the story, and Montaigne repeats it after him, of a 
stranger who publicly said he could teach Dionysius an infallible way to 
find out and discover all the conspiracies his subjects should contrive 
against him, if he would give him a good sum of money for his pains. 
Dionysius, hearing of it, had the man sent for, and desired at once to be 
made master of a secret so precious. What was the art the man had to 
communicate? Quick! Let him name his terms. Well, his terms 
were a talent. That was a good deal of money. But Dionysius would 
not haggle — but would comport himself en prince. So the man should 
have the talent. And now, what was the art that cost so round a 
sum ? All the art was, that, giving the ingenious gentleman a talent, 
his majesty should afterwards boast in all quarters that he had obtained 
a singular secret from him. Dionysius liked the idea — paid down a 
thousand crowns for it — and made political capital of it, from that day 
forth. It was not likely, as Montaigne, who relishes the idea too, re- 
marks, that the king should give so great a sum to a person unknown, 
unless as a reward for some extraordinary and very useful discovery, and 
the belief of this served to keep his enemies in awe. '* Princes," adds 
the shrewd old essayist, " do very wisely, however, to publish the in- 
formations they receive of all the practices against their lives, to possess 
men with an opinion that they have .such good intelligence, and so many 
spies abroad, that nothing can be plotted against them but they have im- 
mediate notice of it."* But this stroke of practical policy would have hit 
the taste of Dionysius less, by a good deal, than the theory that cost him 
an ungrudged talent. He was of a turn of mind to appreciate the ex- 
pansive powers of imaginative suspicion. A miserable turn of mind, but 
one that with him was at once beyond participation and beyond relief. 
A blighting, palsying presence, this of stealthy Suspicion ; hut a presence 
that was not to be put by. 

Bat thus it is with kings ; suspicions haiint 
And dangers press around them all their days ; 
Ambition galls them, luxury corrupts. 
And wars and treasons are their talk at table.f 

* Essais de Montaigne, livre L ch. xxiii. 
t H. Taylor, Edwin the Fair, Act IV. Sc. 4. 


40 Dionysitis the Elder. 

So ans^irers Danstan his sovran when the latter intimates his apprehen- 
sion of poison in his food, and is bluffly told by the l^tant churchman 
that his food is. poisoned by his own suspicions : 

'Tis your own fault. The' Gurmo's zeal is great. 
It is impossible lie should so exceed 
As to put poison in your food : — 

an impossibility about which there may be two opinions ; but there can 
be only one as to the wretchedness of royalty environed by such condi- 
tions of mistrust. When Philip Melanchthon, on the authority of a 
person who had filled an important post at the court of Clement VIL, 
mentioned that every day, after the Pope had supped, his cup-bearer and 
cooks were imprisoned for two hours, and then, if no symptoms of poison 
manifested themselves in their master, were released — Luther, at whose 
table the story was told, burst out with the exclamation, " What a mise- 
rable life ! 'Tis exactly what Moses has described in Deuteronomy: 
* And thy life shall hang in doubt before thee, and thou shalt fear, day 
^nd night, and shalt have none assurance of thy life. In the morning, 
thou shalt say: Would God it were even ! and at even, thou shalt say: 
Would God it were morning !' "* The feeling of such perturbed poten- 
tates may be expressed in the terms of Gonerii's answer to Albany, when 
he opines, ** Well, you may fear too far." 

Gon, Safer than trust : 

Let me still take away the harms I fear, 
Not fear still to be taken.f 

Lewis the Eleventh, in his last days, is a grimly grotesque personification 
of this crowned (but cross-bearing) suspicion, as Comines pictures him 
at Plessis-les- Tours : " Voudroit-on dire que ce roy ne souffrit pas aussi 
bien que les autres, qui ainsi s'enfermoit et se faisoit garder, qui estoit 
en peur de ses enfants, et de tous ses prochains parents, et qui changeoit 
et muoit de jour en jour ses serviteurs qu^il avoit nourris, et qui nei 
tenoient biens ne honneur que de luy, tellement qu'en nul d'eux ne 
s'osoit fier, et s'enchaisnoit ainsi de si etranger chaines et clostures T^X 
It is to no purpose, says Montaigne, to have a guard of foreigners about 
a man's person, or to be always fenced around with a pale of armed men; 
for '^ whoever despises his own life is always master of that of another 
man."§ And, moreover^ as Montaigne goes on to teach, this continual 
suspicion, that makes a prince jealous of everybody, must, of necessity, be 
a marvellous torment to him: whence it was that Dion, being warned 
that Calippus watched an opportunity to take away his life, had never the 
hieart to inquire more particularly into it, but said he had rather die than 
live in the misery of always being on his guard, not only against his 
enemies but his very Mends. || Those who preach to princes so circum- 
spect and vig^ant a jealousy and distrast, do, in Montaigne's judgment, 
under colour of security, preach to them ruin and dishonour. But, 

As Gatoun saitb, he that guilty is, 
Demeth al thing be spoke of him, I wis ;^ 

♦ Luther's Tischreden, 448. f King Lear, Act I. So. 4. 

J M^moires de Philippe de Comines, 1. vi. ch. xi. 
§ Seneca, Epist. 4. Jl Essais de Montugne, L 23. 

^ Chaucer, Prologe of the Chanounes Y eman. 

Dionysius tlte Elder. 41 

which is Chaucer's philosophy o£ character ia the instance of his heauton^ 
timoroumenos of an iil^ thinking tianon, 

— ^ — for suspeccioun 


Of mennes speche ever hadde this Chanoun. 

Every such self-tormentor bears about with Mm the penalty of his dis- 
trust — not the remedy. Not that he is at all the sort of poor creature 
popularly known as Nobody's enemy but his own ; — ^for to every living 
creature he is potentially hostile^ and to an improper fraction of them 
actually so. But he is emphatically hb own enemy as well; and is ever 
punishing himself in the prodigious pain he takes to pre-judge others, 
and, by /we-payment, to pay them out. 

lago can affirm the subjective inconvenience, the internal and eternal 
discomfort, to which a temperament of this kind renders its owner 
liable, — 

As, I confess, it is my nature^s plague 
To spy into abuses ; and, oft, my jealousy 
Shapes faults that are not. 

And Othello can think scorn of and cry shame on a life so hampered 
and beset with vile misgivings : 

Think*st thou, I*d make a life of jealousy. 
To follow still the changes of the moon 
With fresh suspicions ? No ! . . .* 

Addison comments on it as a characteristie of great and heroic minds, 
that they not only show a particular disregard to the unmerited re-- 
proaches cast upon them, but are altogether free from what he calls 
" that impertinent curiosity of inquiring after them, or the poor revenge 
of resentmg." To -the histories of Alexander and Caesar he points, as 
full of this kind of instances. And then he proceeds to remark that 
vulgar souls are of a quite contrary character j — and here is his flagrant 
instance ready made : " Dionysius, the tyrant of Sicily, had a dungeon, 
which waa a very curious piece of architecture ; and of which, as I am 
informed, there are still to be seen some remains in' that island. It was 
called Dionysius's Ear, and built with several little windings and laby- 
rinths in the form of a real ear. The structure of it made it a kind of 
whispering place, but such a one as gatherediihe voice of him who spoke 
into a funnel, which was placed at the very top of it. 

" The tyrant used to lodge all his state criminals, or those whom her 
supposed to be engaged together in any evil designs upon him, in this 
dungeon. He had at the same time an apartment over it, where he used 
to apply himself to the funnel, and by that means overfaettr everything 
that was whispered in the dungeon. '^f 

Mr. Addison; before getting out of Ear-shot of Bionysiosf ventures to 
affirm, that' a Caesar or- an Alexander would rather have' died by the 
treason, than. have used such disingenuous means for detecting it. 

When .the Maid of Orleans was immured in that loathsome cell in the 
dOnjon-keep of K^rotoy, which had long been covered by the sands of the 
Somme, and from which, looking out upon the sea, she could sometimes 

* Othello, Act m. Sc 3. i^t Speetat<»r, Na 489. 

42 DiQnysius the Elder. 

descry the English downs,* — added to the wretchedness of being linked 
to a beam by a large iron chain, and under the personal watch by night 
and day, within the cell, of three of the brigand ruffians called '' hous- 
pilleurs," she was also subjected to espial from without. Winchester, 
the inquisitor, and Estivet, promoter of the prosecution (Cauchon's 
right-hand-man of business), had each a key to the tower, and watched 
her hourly through a hole in the wall. Each stone of this infernal 
dungeon, says Michelet,t had eyes. Cauchon and his crew found their 
account in this Argus-eyed policy. If stone-walls have ears, and eyes, 
at least let them be used to the gaoler^s profit, not the prisoner's. 

Shakspeare makes Richard III., who had more than a touch of 
Dionysian cleverness and sinister statecraft in him, extemporise a mecha- 
nical Ear, for all practical purposes, in the folds of his officers' tents, as 
they are encamped on Bosworth field : 

It is not yet near day. Come, go with me, 

he bids his trusty tool and confidant. Sir Richard RatclifiTe ; 

Under our tents I'll play the eavesdropper. 
To hear if any mean to shrink from me.J 

As to the Ear of Dionysius, that was a worthy device to give almost 
literal truth to the rhetorical hyperbole of the Preacher, the son of David, 
King of Jerusalem, when he said,§ Curse not the king, no, not in thy 
thought ; and curse not the rich in thy bedchamber: for a bird of the 
air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the 

The science of acoustics enabled his Sicilian majesty to do without 
bird-carriage for the vocables, or winged agency to tell the matter. The 
words uttered, however whisperingly, inside his Ear, were themselves 
cTTfo Trrepoeyra, Winged words; and winged their way straight to their 
destination, among the secrets of his royal, his most unroysl heart. 

Need the reader be reminded of the Scottish Solomon's emulation of 
the Dionysian Ear, in Sir Walter's story of the Fortunes of Nigel ? How 
James remembers him of having read " that Dionysius, King of Syra- 
cuse, whom," quoth the pedant-prince, parenthetically, ** historians call 
Tvpavvo9, which signifieth not in the Greek tongue, as in ours, a tru- 
culent usurper, but a royal king who governs, it may be, something more 
strictly than we and other lawful monarchs, whom the ancient termed 
fiaaiXtis — Now this Dionysius of Syracuse caused cunning workmen to 
build for himself a lugg — D'ye ken what that is, my Lord Bishop ?" 
the Winchester prelate is asked ; who answers, " A cathedral, I presume 
to guess." But the Scotch dialect being a topic upon which the bishop 
cannot pronounce ex cathedra^ a cathedral happens to be entirely beside 
the mark. And his majesty resumes, in impatience at Southron stolidity : 
" What the deil, man — I crave your lordship's pardon for swearing — but 
it was no cathedral — only a lurking-place called the king's lugg, or ear^ 
where he could sit undescried, and hear the converse of his prisoners. 
Now, sirs, in imitation of this Dionysius, whom I took for my pattern, 

♦ Michelet, Histoire de France, t. v. 1. x. cb. iv. + Ibid., a.d. 1431. 

} IQng Richard XIL, Act V. Sc. 3. § Ecclesiastes, x. 20. 

Dionysius the Elder. 43 

the rather that he was a great linguist and grammarian, and taught a 
school with good applause after his ahdication (either he or his successor 
of the same name, it matters not whilk) — I have caused them to make 
a lugg up at the state-prison of the Tower yonder, more like a pulpit 
than a cathedral^ my Lord Bishop — and communicating with the arras 
behind the Lieutenants chamber, where we may sit and privily hear the 
discourse of such prisoners as are pent up there for state offences, and so 
creep into the very secrets of our enemies."* At which pawky expose 
of pusillanimous kingcraft, Prince Charles casts a glance towards Buck- 
ingham, expressive of great vexation and disgust ; and the duke shrugs 
his shoulders in appreciative response, but with a motion discreetly im- 
perceptible, so far as James's goggle eyes are concerned. 

But to return to Dionysius himself. The conditions of his existence 
— perpetual mistrust, danger even from the nearest kindred, enmity both 
to and from every dignified freeman, and reliance only on armed bar- 
barians or liberated slaves — these are conditions which, in the language 
of Mr. Grote, ** beset almost every Grecian despot, and from which the 
greatest despot of his age enjoyed no exemption." Yet, although philo- 
sophers emphatically insisted that such a man must be miserable, 
Dionysius himself, as well as the great mass of admiring spectators — 
mob and majesty uniting in contempt of ideology men, and Messieurs 
les Philosophes — would probably feel, as the historian says, that the 
necessities of the king's position were '^ more than compensated by its 
awe-striking grandeur, and by the full satisfaction of ambitious dreams." 
But the Syracusans, over whom he ruled, enjoyed no such compensation 
for that which they suffered from his tax-gatherers — from his garrisons 
of Gauls, Iberians, and Campanians, in Ortygia — from his spies — his 
prison — and his executioners.f 

For himself, again, were there not the compensations of authorship, the 
consolations of literature? Was not Dionysius also among the poets, 
even as was Saul also among the prophets? Woe to the wight that 
should be caught whispering to the contrary, in the Ear of Dionysius ! 
It was made a Star-Chamber business of, in Sicily, to mis-esteem or 
tmder-estimate the royal verses. Montaigne has a long paragraph on the 
phenomenon, yet a stubborn fact, that Dionysius valued himself upon 
nothing more than his poetry ; and tells how, at the Olympic Games, 
with chariots surpassing all others in magnificence, he was represented by 
poets and musicians, who brought his majesty's verses thither wholesale, 
to be recited in the ravished ears of thousands on thousands. When the 
verses came to be declaimed by these ^' professionals," with all the em- 
phasis and discretion, all the fluent grace and effective accentuation of 
practised elocutionists, the people were at first pleased and plauditory. 
But it soon struck the listeners that the matter, the substance, to which 
these experts were thus doing a deal more than justice, was wishy-washy 
stuff — the utter worthlessness of which not even so artfully artistic a 
delivery could long conceaL Even a real maestro in operatic composi- 
tion, aided by a star to warble his sweetest on the boards, will not always 
avail to save a twaddle of namby-pambyism in the libretto from condign 

* The Fortunes of Nigel, vol. ii. ch. xvi. 

t S^ Grote, Histoiy of Greece, XI. ch. Izxxiu. passim. 


44 Dionysius the Elder. 

perdition. The people Tf ho gave ear to the Dionysian lyrics, were first 
of all attracted by the masterly skill at recitative in the performers. 
Then the suspicion crept in that the words were a trifle rickety or so. 
Next came an cntirer conviction that the words were unmitigated and re- 
demptionless trash. They laughed, and hooted, and jeered, accordingly, 
to their hearts' content; and from derision they worked themselves up 
to wrath and vengeance, and in a frenzy of resentment the hooters pro- 
ceeded to acts of riot, pulling down his majesty's royally gilt and 
tapestried' pavilions, and tearing . ihenv to pieces, as the E<)i3QaQ mob was 
for doing to Casca the poet,- in person,* for his bad verses. 

At any rate, the king had furnished the Olympic critics with a ** sen- 
sation" piece, and taught them a new Game to play, in that highly select 
circle of theirs. 

But Sicilia was in frowns when the ill news came. Mr. Grote says 
that, when we are told' that the badness of the poems caused them to be 
received with opprobrious ridicule, it is easy to see that the hatred in- 
tended for the person of Dionysius was discharged upon his verses. That 
of course the hissers and hooters would make it clearly understood v^at 
they really meant, and would indulge in: the full licence of heaping curses 
upon his name and acts. That neither the best reciters of Greece, nor 
the best poems even of Sophocles or Pindar, could have any chance 
against such predetermined antipathy. And that the whole scene would 
end in the keenest disappointment and humiliation, inflicted upon the 
Syracusan envoys as well as upon the actors, this being the only channel 
through which the retributive ehastisement of Hellas could be made to 
reach the author. ^^ Though not present in person at Olympia, the 
despot felt the chastisement in his inmost soul. The mere narrative of 
what had passed plunged him into an agony of sorrow, which for some 
time seemed to grow worse by brooding on the scene, and at length drove 
him nearly mad. He was smitten with intolerable consciousness of the 
profound natred borne towards him, even throughout a large portion of 
the distant and independent Hellenic world. He fancied that this hatred 
was shared by all around him, and suspected every^one as plotting ag^nit 
his life. To such an excess of cruelty did this morbid excitement canry 
him, that he seized ^several of his best Mends, under false< accusations, and 
surmises, and <;aused them to be slain."* 

But Mr. Grote is noway disposed :to let his voice swell the common 
cry of mockers at a despot^s bad verses. He recognises in Dionysius not 
only a triumphant prince but a tragic poet ; competitor, as such, for that 
applause and admiration which no force can- extort. Since none of his 
tragedies have been preserved,- the historian can* form no judgment of his 
own respecting them. But when he learns that Dionysius had stood 
second or third,* and that one of his compositions gained even the first 
prize at the Lenaean festival at Athens in 368-367 b.o. — the favourable 
judgment of an Athenian audience is h^, by the modem critic, to afford 
good reason for presuming -tiiat the despot's talents in poetry were con- 
siderable. It is &eely allowed, however, that, Jit the vexatious time of 
the Olympic Grames, whioh was some twenty years earlier,. Dionysius the 
poet was not likely to receive an impartial hearing ^anywhere : for while 

•* Qiote^'XL 46. 

Dionysius the Elder. 45 

on the one hand his own circle would applaud every word— on the other 
hand,. a large proportion of independent Greeks would he biased against 
what they heard hy their fear and hatred of the author. If we believed 
the anecdotes recounted by Diodorus, we should conclude not^ merely that 
the tragedies were contemptible compositions, but that the irritability of 
Dionysius in regard to criticism was exaggerated even to silly weakness.''^ 
Philoxenus, a dithyrambic poet of some mark, who was either visiting or 
residing at Syracuse, was asked his opinion, after hearing one of his 
majesty's tragedies privately recited. Philoxenus gave what he was 
asked for, — ^his opinion; which, happening to be what it was, should have 
been the last thing for him to think of giving. So he thought, perhaps, 
when he found himself at the Quarries for speaking hisonind. Next day, 
however, he was let out again: the more speedily, perchance, because 
Dionysius had a copy of verses to read to him, upon which the labour of 
the file had been so diligently exercised, that the despot was sanguine 
of propitiating the fastidious critic, this time. The stoiy goes, that 
Philoxenus made for the palace, escorted by a body of guards, — in whose 
presence, then and there, the royal bard recited the poem on which he 
plumed himself — and, that done,, forthwith desired Philoxenus to pro- 
nounce a true verdict. Instead of complying with a request that, to an 
honest man, would infallibly produce as ugly a sequel as before, and 
might bring something worse still, Philoxenus turned abruptly to the 
guards, and, with a dry air of decision that must have tickled all but the 
king, bade them take him back to the Quarries at once. 

Haply, however, the king was tickled too ; for it does not appear that 
the poet had a fresh term of imprisonment, with hard labour. On the 
contrary, he got on very well at court ; having received a lesson for life, 
well learnt by heart ; and thenceforth contriving as neatly, by '^ delicate 
wit and double-meaning phrases," to express an inoffensive sentiment 
without openly compromising himself, as the celebrated worthy in die 
'* Spectator," who assumed such a very limited liability by the adjudi- 
catory sentence, solemn and serene, that there was a great deal to be said 
on both sides of the question. 

Mr. Grote, however, as we have seen, is not at all satisfied with* the 
air of ridicule which Diodorus has cast over the Dionysiac 6meute at the 
Olympic Games, and its effect on his majesty's mind, by recognising 
nothing except the despot's vexation at the ill success of his poem, as the 
cause of his mental suffering. It is improbable, the historian argues, that 
the poem of Dionysius — himself " a man of ability, and having every 
opportunity of profiting by good critics whom he had purposely as- 
sembled around him" — should have been so ridiculously bad as to disgust 
an impartial audience. Still more improbable is it, Mr. Grote thinks, 
that a simple poetical failure, though doubtless mwtifying to him, should 
work with such fearful effect as to plunge him into anguish and madness. 
To unnerve thus violently a person like Dionysius — deeply stained with 
the great crimes of unscrupulous ambition, but remarkably exempt from 
infirmities — some more powerful cause is, in the historian's judgment, 
required. And to his critical scrutiny that cause stands out conspicuously, 
in the actual, circumstances of the Olympic festival of 384 B.C. 

♦ Grote, XI. 36. 

46 Dionysius the JElder. 

DioDysius, then, we are to bear in mindf bad accumulated for this occa- 
sion all the means of showings himself off, ^^like Krcesus in his interview 
with Solon," as the most prosperous and powerful man in the Hellenic 
world; means beyond thetjreach of any eontempm^ary, and surpassing 
evenHieroor Thero of former days, whose praises in the odes of Pind^ 
he probably had in his mind. He counted, probably with good reason, 
Mr. Grote continues, ** that his splendid legation, chariots, and outfit of 
acting and recitation for the poems, would surpass ererything else seen 
on, the holy plain ; and he fully expected such reward as the public were^ 
always glad to bestow on such men who exhausted their pur^s in the 
recognised yein.of Hellenic pious ostentation. In this high wrought state 
of expectation, what, does Dionysius hear- by his messengers r^iurnin^ 
from the festival? That their mission had proved a total failure; aira 
even worse than a failure ; that the display h^d called foith none of the 
usual admiratioi^i noit because there were rivals on the ground equal of 
superior, but simply because fit came from Aim; that its very magnificence 
had operated to Tender thd expIo9ion of' antipathy^ against him louder and 
more violent; that his tents in the saered ground had been actually 
assailed, and that access to sacrifice, as well as to the matches, had be^n 
secured to him only by the, interposition of authority.- We learn, indeed, 
that his chariots i^iled in the field by unlucky accidents; but in the 
existing temper of t^e crowd, these -very accidents would be seized t^ 
occasions for detrisory 'cheering against him.'' To this' must be^ added 
explosions of hatred, yet moi^ furious, elicited by his poems, putting ttie 
r^iters to uttet^ shame; At the moment when .Dionysius expected to 
hear the account of an unparalleled triumrph, he is thus informed, not 
merely of « dii^appointment, ^ but: of insults to hiniself, direct and personal, 
the most poi^ant ev^r; oiSSered by Greeks to a Greek, amidst the hoHest 
and niost'frequeaaited ceremony of the Hellenic -world. Never in any 
other case do w« read of public antipathy, agsiinst an individual, being 
carried to the pitch of desecrating by violence the majesty of the Otympiac 
festival. * ' 

"Here, then,^' the historian concludes, " were the real and sufficient 
causes — ^not the mere ill suqeess of his poem — whieh penetrated the soul 
of Dionysius, driving him into anguislrand temporary madness^ Though 
he. had silenced the Vox Popnli at Syracuse, not all hia> nofercenaries, 
forts, and ships in Ortygia, could save him from feeling its foroe^ when' 
thus emphatici^Uy, poured forth against him by the free*spoken erowd at 
Olympia*"*.. (, - .-^^ •.. ;i -.-.'...• - : -. - .. 

3ut ^vengniii ting, that; chagrin merdy at the faihireof a poem cost 
him so deafr by ;en<(aiUng the! loss iaf reason^ a long-oubsequent success in 
another poem cost him yet <deaarer,tby entailing th^' loss of life. Grant 
that the ixvqjrtifioation of the. vOlympiae festival in the year 384 B.C. drove 
hipfi mad. Extrepies meet V The rapture he fslt at gaining the first piize 
for tragedy, at t^e Len^an fbstival of. Athens, in 367 b.c, onade an end 
of ium altogether. Dio^ysiuStoiSeiied sacrifice to the gods when the good 
news reached, him, and lomethi^g .more substantial than. ^ happy man^' 
was th(^ dole of the messenger. The king. made- it great ^sasi, and bade 

* Qrote, XX* BO $q.f cf. pp. 35 sq,, 44 »q. 

Ifionysius the Eldei\ 4tl 

many ; and with them he rejoiced and made merry, and not only drank 
more than hi was used to, but more than he could away with ; for the 
more was enough to make away with him. He died of wine and excite- 
ment and (j}ost hocy prapter hoc) of fever, after a reign of eight- and- 
thirty years, in that fatal Lensean year, 367. 

Advisedly said we, more wine than he was used to. For Dionysius 
the Elder was notably a temperate roan. His sobriety and continance 
were beyond impeachment. And in this regard, his good eicample 
became the mone note-worthy, because it was not followed by those who 
came after him. We find that of all the princes descended from him, not 
one inherited the temperance which had contributed 86 much to his suc- 
cess.* Not one of them but has a bad name for lechery and sottishness; 
rakes and revellers all. 

It may well be said, as respects the hurried-on termination of the elder 
despot's course, that, after all, thirty -eight years, of a career so full of 
effort as his, must have left a constitution sufficiently exhausted to give 
way easily before acute disease. Throughout this long period, says Mr. 
Grote, he had never spared himself : — he was a man of restless energy 
and activity, bodily as well as mental ; alwa3r8 personally at the head of 
his troops in war-— keeping a vigilant eye and a decisive hand upon all 
the details of his government at home— r-yet employing spare time (which 
Philip of Macedon was surprised that he could find) in composing 
tragedies of his own, to compete for prizes &irly adjudged. 

It is one of Plutarch's anecdotes, that one day, when Philip of Macedon 
and Dionysius the Younger were mellow with drink, the former, with a 
soupgon of sneer in his (isice and tone, introduced some remarks on the 
odes and tragedies whidh Di senior had left behind him, and affected to 
doubt how the old gentleman could possibly find leisure for that idle 
trade. When could sueh things have been written by him? Di junidr 
answered, with a spirit, ** They were written in the time which you and 
I, and odier jolly good fellows, spend over the bowl.'*f 

Notwithstanding his bondage of fear against any attempts on his life, 
the personal bravery of the head of the £eimily was beyond dispute. Twice 
we hear of his being severely wounded in leading his soldiers to assault. 
The historian has to note, as remarkable features in the character of 
Dionysttts, his effective skill as ambitious politician — his military resource 
as a commander— and the long-sighted care with which he provided im- 
plements of offenee as well as of defence before undertaking war. We 
find the Roman Scipio Africanus singling out Dionysius and Agathocles, 
both of them despots of Syracuse, with an interval of half a century, as 
the two Greeks of greatest ability for action known to him — men who 
combined, in the most memorable degree, daring with sagacity. This 
criticism, coming, as Mr. Grote says, from an excellent judge, is borne 
out by the biography of both, so far as it comes to our knowledge. No 
other Grreek, he observes, can be pointed out, who, starting from a posi- 
tion humble and unpromising, raised himself to so lofty a pinnacle of 
dominion at home, achieved such striking military exploits abroad, and 
preserved his grandeur unimpaired throughout the whole of a long life. . 
Dionysius boasted that he bequeathed to his son an empire fastened by 

* Grote, XL 186, 273. f Plutarch, Life of Timoleon. 

May-^YOt>* Gxxvui. no. diz. e 

48 IHanyisim t/ie ^/ofer, 

adamantine chains i* so ppwerful was bis mercenary focce; — so firm big 
position in Qrtygia— hso- completely bad the Syracusans beeoi bsoken in 
to subjection. 

There cannot, Mr. Grote fi^ther reoMurks, be aibeUer teat of yigpur 
and ability than the unexampled success with which IMonysius and 
Agathodes played the game of the despot, and to a eertain extent tiiat 
of the conqueror. Of the two, Dionysius be pronounces the most favoured 
by fortune. For although botk of them profited by- oii« attaai^airy aoci- 
dent, which distingutshed Syracuse fcoixi other GseciaA ei^p«^ lUMSc^y, ihet 
local speciality of Orfeygia^*-^ which islet wns ao Ibrtified as to firovide th» 
deapot with an Almost impregnable atrongholdyt and seened jadeed eisr- 
pressly ooade to be g^airriaoned as a sepstfste; lovtresa, apant from, as-«(«U. 
as against, the rest of Syracuse, and having full conimaJid«f die harbour*, 
doeks, naval force, and aaval? approach ;—»yei; had DieAysiua, m addiiteon 
to thifl^ several ^/ peculiar^ inteffveationg of the gods m nis £ayeiir^ aom»*- 
times at the most critical momenta ^'^ suob wa6 the intetpretation put bf 
hia enemies (and doubtless by hia friendi ako) upon those nepeated 
pestilences whiitb smote the Carthaginian armies with a. foseee fur uy^m 
deadly than the spew of. thiB Syiiacusan b^litee. 

On. the whole,, if Dtonyaiua sufceeeded* m ih» iaee. o£ abstadUs. thai 
might have seemed insuperabk^ ia fHstesung vonnd his ftreerbflim^ &eet- 
bred oountrymen, aa history shows him to bcuie dooe,^ thoae '* adafiGHMs 
tine chains" which they were well known to, abher-^«e may: be smd^, 
with Ms^ Grote^ that his plan of pxooeedini^ jwist have been: dexiiNKMi^ly 
chosen, and prosecuted with consummate pesseveranflet and audaeiAy. But 
we niay also be sure that it was nefameus in the extreme^ : ^ The mm^ 
cbinery of a firaud: whereby the people were to be ^ie«ted «aiCK*/ite«ir 
pm:ary submission^ as a. pvelode to the maahinery q£ force i^ieeeby jsudt 
submission waa te be perpeiuatad againet tbeiv eonsent^was) the steri^ 
in-trade of jCb^cian usorpersk But seldom, does it appear ^ptefaeed b]ir 
more impudent cahimaies, or worked out wkh a lavger meaauMr 'oC vio- 
lence and spoliation, than, ini the ease o( X>ieiiysi«is». iSe mum- indeed 
powerfully seconded ati the» ouiset by the danger o£ Sysaeusa: btms^i thr 
Carthaginiai^ ainis. But hia schenM of usurpn^ny far iram dimi»ifhin§ 
anch danger, tended. m*teriaUy to, increase ub, by disuniting th^ettkjs.aiio 
critical a moment*. DionQisitts aobieved noting io bif^finM; /enterpnee fee 
the relief of Gela and Kamariaa^ He wsaa foroed to retire witb ati muck 
dii^ace a& those previous gencffak wbiNn^be had so bitterlj^vitnpeiatlad; 
and apparently aven with greater disgcaoe^^siiMie tbeise mt atidug giteunds 
for believing ^at he entjered into traitofona collusion with the Caitha- 
g^inians. The. salvation of Syracuse, at that moment of p«Kil> arose not 
from the enei|^y or ability of Dionysius,, but fiK)m the oppevtune epidemic 
which disabled ImUkon in the midst of a victorious career." 

Himilco — to use the common way of spelling his name whom Mc 
Grote writes Imilkon — escaped to Carthage with such of hia nen as 
pestilence and Dionysius spared, after paying a large sum to the despot 
for permission to retire on any tecma. Anon there arri^fied^ b^g. Z92y a 
new Carthaginian army under Mago. Theee were forced to re^eoabark 


* Plntarch, Dion, c 7. f Cf. Gw^ vol. x. pp^ 6^&#j^ i v^. xL p^ 6». 

I See Grote, XI. 66 sq. 

Dionysius the Elder. 49 

almost as soon as they had disembarked, and to pay the expense of the 
war. Next, Dionysius defeated the allied towns of Magna Graecia ; and 
akovt this time it said* to ha^re receWedt an emlMisgy from the €radby 
fresh from and flushed with the boming^ of Rome, ms was now 

-a name of fear, 

Uspleasiog'ift a Greckot ear. 

Both m Italy and Sietfy he was an oliject of appreft^msion and mistrust, 
amd to the dominion of botfa eoumtries he seems at one time to have 
as^reS. W& read that, in orcEer to raise money-^for'he had <]tttte anti* 
cipated, Ag«s beforehand, the> pra<rtieal piiilosophy of Horace's quttcmque 
modoy rem^ and of I&go*s equivalent '* Put money in thy purse*^ — ^hor 
allledl himsdlf wi^h tiie^ inyrianS) and proposed to them the joint plunder 
of tile lemple^^ Dei^i* The enterprise was undertaken, btit iaifed. He 
consoled lumself, however, by plundering several other temt^s, including 
tkat ef Preserpina, at Loeri ; and as be sailed back i^tti a iair wind, 
liidea^ almost t^ hie heart's content, with sacrilegious spoils, he remarkea 
to hiis fritod% bo doubt with something like a chuckle in his tones, and a 
meny twinkle in his eye, ^* You see how the immortal gods favour 
saerifege.^ ^nd indeed the example of Dionysius— his long career of 
snooelssy endine in a quiet deaths — h among those cited by Cotta, in 
(^cei^^f to rerate the dootrine of Balbus aa to divine providence,' and his 
YinAcdtion Kif the ways of gods to men. 

From no theoiegibal stand-point, ancient or modem, but with the<5alm 
jadgmelt of a political philosopher, Mr. Grote recognises in Dionysius a 
roafi noi only of talents to organise, and boldness to make good, a 
despotisni saore^fotiitndable than anything known to contemporary Greece, 
but alsot mtemade prudence to keep it unimpaired for nearly forty years. 
'^He^mamtaiiied carefully those two precautions which Thucydides 
flpec%es s» the causes of permanence to the Athenian Hippias, undee 
similar circiiaistances'^^intimidation over the citizens, and careful ergani- 
satibn^ mA BBeral pay aoiong^ his mercenaries^' He was temperate in 
iBdulgsocea^ neveC led by any of his appetites iofto the commission of 
Yiokiaoe."|: Tbu abstinence is justly alleg^ by tihe hifiFtorian§ to have 
eolitrilifoted matonaily to prolong his life,, since many a Grecian despot 
pefirii«d througfc desperate feelings oflndividual visngeance provoked by 
lua ootragM. A. rationalistic, and not perhaps the less rational, attempt 
toedpTasn how it came to pass that a tvrant of such dimensions, after a 
tfraoD]^ of wdi dnralaea, maaaged at toe last to die iquietly in hb bed. 


*' JkstMaft, XE. Sc t De DTatu^Beoruni^ HI. 33, &F1, 85« 

I €MB«L Sepos, J»s Re2Umi,.c jL | Grote^JiL 68. 




(50 ),, 

- , ... .-: ., ..-ISLASD* ,;;; 

Thb ImpressioDS received of a new couutry are invariably mote or lesa 
influeaced by the temperaniect of tlie individual, and deacriptiuns are ia 
a iimilur manner affected by the idioayncraeies oE persons. The land and 
climate may be everything that ia desirable, but if there is not safe 
anchorage a sailor will grumble, and portray the country aceordIng;ly. 
The settler complains because the rich soil of centuries of decaying 
forests require to he cleared before it can be turned to profit, while the 
successful goid-finder yeains for the comforts of firat-rate hostelries. 
Thus it is that so many contradictory accounts of Britiah Columbi^i, and 
Vancouver Island have reached this country. It is imposaible to say 
what particular turns of mind will not find to depreciate. Dr. Wood, 
for example, who has oootributed part of the natural history to Com- 
mander Muyne's book, describes many varietiea of grouse m abounding 
both on the i^nd and mainland, but they arc so tame, he says, as 'to 
afford no sport ! The blue grouse, for example, which attains the weight 
of four pounds and a half, may often he seen perehed cm ttie topmost 
branch of some tall pine-tree, from whence he refuses to move for repeated 
charges from an ordinary foivling-picce. "As," however, the doctor adds, 
"the country becomes cleared, their habits will probably change, and 
Vancouver Island will be as noticeable for good sport as Scotland." In 
the mean time, the hungry colonist or prospector may, perchance, rejoice 
that the grouse will sit Btill to be blazed away at. Persons of good sense 
wiU know how to esUniate tliese different and contradictory accounts at 
their just value. There can be no doubt as to the future of British 
Columbia, albeit pei'sons may starve in attempting to reach that country 
by the Rocky Mountains ; there may he rain and frostj mosquitoes and 
otlier tormenting flies, isolation and dearth ; there are drawbacks of 
climate in all countries, and there arc always trials in newly colonised 
and unsettled regions ; but to some these very drawbacks constitute part 
of the test of enterprise aiid adventure, and only serve to stimulate to new 
exertions, and further conquests and successes. Of auob a stamp vieri 
those, uo doubt, who first trod the shores of the Disunited States, or pene^ 
trated into the dark pine forests of Canada, and of auch a stamp will thosi 
be who brave the difficulties of British Columbia, and help to fouiid 
&milies tliat will, possibly, be rolling in wealth when the death-knell of 
prosperity may have sounded for the old countries. Our particular weak- 
ness is impatience to see the land cleared, tlie iidets navigated, the greeJV 
thirst for gold superseded by the more enduring toils fur silver, lead, 
copper, iron, and other useful metals, known to abound in the rocky dis- 
tricts; the numerous coal mines worked, the traffic in lumber fullj 
op9DP(l,(a begioning has, we are happy to find, been siiccessfully biaSeJ, 
the inlswj lakes vid prairies settled, the ports filled with shipping, toe 

■ Fdur Tears In British Colnmbta and VaDoouver Island. An Acoount of tlwll 
Forest*,, Biven, Owsts, Gold Field*, and Besonices for CcicaiiisatlcMi, Bj Com- 

Jtecent Progreti in British Columbia and Vancouver hland. 51 

orerlKnd route carried out, and the fertile valley of the Saakatchewan, or 
Bow lUver, conTerted into a line of prosperoua stages and halts on the 
l^hmy frma the Atlantic and the Paoifi(jI< — a line which our diildren 
will live to see traversed from one end to the other by iron raits. 

Id the meaa time the manifest adrantages held out to colonisation by 
these new r^ions, and the movement to which the discovery of gold 
imparted a sudden and adventitious impulse, has been sufficient to ^oite 
apt only tlie rivalry of individuals, but also of nations; and ive sre 
iodebted to the overbearing cupidity of the Yankees, in attempting; to 
establish their claim to Shii Juan Island by foree, Ibr the exploratory ex- 
pedition of her Majesty's ship Ptumper, Captain G. H. Riebards, the 
Arctic explorer, in command. Commander R: C Msyne happily *ad»g 
as lieutenant. We say happily, for he has been at the trouble of plaeiDg 
the vast amount of new and valuable infiirmation, obtained by the new 
surveys effected, within the reach of all. New inlets ly'it^ in interest, 
and possibly of greater future Importailce than those of Korwayi have 
been discoveied, both on the island, and especianyori its western coast, 
previously supposed to be one lon? tine of black, repulsive voleanio eliSb ; 
and OQ the mainland, where theseaeep inlets nOw open thi> sliortert roads 
to the interior. Dean Inlet, for example, to Praser'Fort, and Fort St^ 
James, in New Caledonia; Sahnon or Beltioula Inlet tO' the Cariboo 
diggings, far up in the interior; Bate Inlet tfi' Alexaudria and ^e 
Upper Eraser; Jervis Inlet AaA Howe SoUnd to Gayooth, of LiHo«tt-^ 
the probable future capital of the country. 

Entering the Strait nf Joan de Fuca, which separates Vancouver lt4and 
from Wfiahingtoti, and wtiioh is from eleven to'lhirteen mitiS in Wtdth, 
densely wooded hills rise gradually to a considerable height on the' shoM 
of the island to the north ; white on the sontheni, or American shore, the 
rugged outline of the Olympian range of snow-rf*4 mountains, varyirtg 
in elevation from four to seven thousand fe«t, and ni breaks of which 
peeps of beautiful country mfly he seen, «tend ft>r many miles. The 
Strait may he said to terminate at the Rape Islands, as it there opens 
into a large expanse of water, which forms a playgnmnd for tht tides and 
currents, hitherto pent up among the islands in the tom^rativety narrow 
limits and the Gulf of Georgia, to frolic in. Off Neah'Bay is a fishery, 
muoh frequented by the Indians, of halibut, cod, atid other -firfi. Which 
will, no doubt. Commander Mayu'e says, prove s sbarc« of considemblb 
profit to the colony. It was, he adds, some time doubted bythe gavtmar 
and others, whether tlie true cod waS to be cau^ on this bank; btrt 
"some years later, when we wer^ here with theHeealtj we »e*tfed this 
in the aflirmative, beyond a doubt." . ■ ■ - , , 

Eight miles north of the Race Islands, in, the harbour of Cstjuinfdt, 
and three miles northward of that,, lies Victoria, the tiapital oF-Vancouver 
Island, and the present seat of govemmeni fat fabth that -colony find 
British Columbia. As a harbour, Es^uimalt )s by fitr the best in the 
southern part of the island. We have upon a pteviiHis occasion' animad- 
verted upon the neglect which' this admirable harbour has met with at the 
hands of government. Commander Mayne joins in the same recrinnna- 
tion. Each new admiral, he says, that u appointad to the North Pacific 
station, appears to be more and more imprMsed with^the evident value 
and impcurtaDce of Esquimalt as a naval sta^n. "Had a floating dock 

52 Recent Ptogreu in Briiuh Cokamhia nnd Vanomwer JUamtL 

been built here it would by this time have more thtn paid ibr its 
structioa, and we should not be depeadent, as we are now, vpon tiie 
American doek at Mare Island, San Francisco, for tbe repair of our Mfe 
of war. Considering, indeed, the uncertain state of our relfttions with 
the Disunited States, and more espedally with California, such a state 
«f things is more than disgraceful. Had war-— which was at one tiose 
imminent, wfaikt this very survey was going on — brokefi out, the senrioes 
of the MeeatiSy a power^l steamer, woaid have been lost to ihe Oountty, 
firom the absence of all means of repairing her. 

Esquimau has seen, and is still lilcely to see, many startTing changes. 
Commander Mayue 6rst made its acquaintance in 1849, whisn the 
Inconstant used to fire shot and shell as ihey liked about the hafbeur, 
H&d send parties ashore to eut as much wood as they needed. Now the 
said shore was occupied by rows of sespectaUe, well-kept buil^ngs, wkh 
pleasant gardens in front of them ; the growth of the present towo ef 
Esquimalt is even of still more recent date. It sprang into existence 
whilst the survey was going on. ^ Nine years bade we had to seramUe 
irom the ship's boat on to the most convenient rock : bow Jones's land- 
ing-place received usj and in ihe stead of forcing a padi over the rociES 
and through the bush to the Victoria Inlet, whence, if a natire should 
hi^pen to be lounging about in the Indian villaige of the Sonnies, asid 
should see us or hear our shouts and bring a ctnoe over we might hope 
to reach Victoria, a broad carriage-road, not of the best, perhaps, aod a 
serviceable bridge, were found conneeting Esquimalt Harbour wkh 

When Victoria was founded, no one ever dreamt then of <Jie minerai 
wealth of the valleys that sloped from the Rocky Mountains to the sea, 
or that in a few years cities would spring up upon shores almost unknown 
to the civilised world. But, long before the present rush of i mm i g rants 
to these regions, Victoria, as a port, had been virtually superseded by the 
adjacent and admirable harbour of Esquimalt. Veiy possibly, Oon- 
mander Mayne observes, could the future have been foreseen, Victoria 
would not have been selected as the chief commercial port of Vancouver 
Island. But the selection has been made, the town is built, or butldtng, 
the commerce already attracted. The fact must be regarded as aooom- 
pUshed beyond the possibility of change, and the only thing that can now 
be done is to connect it with the harbour of Esquimalt, towards winch 
task the natural formation of the country lends itself admirably. But 
local jealousies unfortutmtely interpose here. The landholders of yictona, 
believing that the elevation of Esquimalt into the harbour of the colony 
would lower the value of their property, persistently oppose die proje^ 
of facilitating the connexion of the two. Time will do justice to such a 
selfish spirit of opposition to an irresistible progress. 

The £rst and most important thing to be done on arriving was, after 
the determination of the exact spot where the boundary-line of 49 deg. 
north latitude met the sea, to settle the channel by which it was intended, 
by the treaty of 1844, that the boundary-line should pass to the Strait of 
Fuca. The point where this line came down to the sea, in Semiahmoo 
Bay, was found to differ only eight feet from that fixed upon by the 
American commissioners. Thence the Mumper proceeded to Nanaimo 
to coal. Commander Mayne says of this place, which has now passed 

Mfcwt Pregresi in British Columbia and Vancouv$r Island. 53 

<mt of tke hands of the Hudson's Bay Company into that of an enter* 
prising British company, that with a more liberal outlay of capital, under 
judicious and enterprising management, it might dme a very flourishing 
trade at home and with California, where coal might he delivered at 
twelre to fifteen dollars a ton, which would be alnK>8t as desirable as the 
Welsh coal, whidi is seldom below twenty dollars, and sometimes fetches 
at much as thirty doilara a ton. " For domestic consomption, and for 
use in the factories,'' he adds, "** I believe die coal of Nanaimo to be 
almost equal to that brought at such an immense expense and IsAbour from 
the Welsh muaes. Indeed, when I happened to be at San Francisco, I 
was informed by one of the leadii^ iron-manu&cturers there that they 
.preferred miziag Nanaimo with Welsh coal when they wttt able to 
obtain it." 

The whole of the summer of 1858 was taken up with making an ae- 
curate chart of all the disputed islands and cliaanels, the first of which 
4ire all included in the Haro Archipelago. The treaty of 1S44 appears 
to have been made under the impression that there was only one chotiQ^ 
between Vancouver Island and the continent, and in ignorance that any 
islands existed there at all. Practically, at that time there wasr only one 
channel, for the eastern, or Canal de Rosario, was the only one about 
vhi(;h anything was known, and had been used by all the navigators who 
had entered the Gulf of Georgia. Yet when the foundation of Victoria 
led to the use of the western channel, or Canal de Haro, the Yankees 
.wished to carry the line, which was, by the treaty, to continue to ** the 
centre of the Gulf of Georgia, and thence southward, through the channel 
which separates the continent from Vancouver Island, to the Straits of 
Juan de Fuca,'' along the western channel, thus giving to them the whole 
of the archipelago which lay east of that channel ! 

Commander Mayne says that his official position in the survey pre- 
cludes his entering into a discussion which is as unsettled now as it was 
then ; but he says quite enough for any person of common sense to form 
an opinion tfpon the matter, supposing the facts as above stated not to be 
as conclusive to some minds as they are to ours. Whidh was the channel 
known and in use at the time of tne treaty ? Undoubtedly the eastern, 
and that was therefore " the channel*^ meant. The distance between this 
eastern channel and the westerly, which came afterwards into use, is 
about twenty miles, full of islands, varying in size from ten or twelve 
jniles long, to a mere heap of trap with two or three pines upon them. 
The generality of these islands are, indeed, covered with pine-trees to the 
water's edge, through which knobs of trap show in places. The eentral 
and disputed group consists of the three important islands— ->San Joan, 
Orcas, and Lopez*— and about thirty smaller ones. Of these, Orcas, the 
most northern, is the largest, and contains the finest harix)m*s. It is 
mountainous, and in most paits thickly wooded, altihough in the valleys 
there is much land available for farming. On the east side of the island 
Mount Constitution rises nearly five thousand feet, and is a very con- 
spicuous object from all parts of the Gulf of Georgia. Deer also abound 
more in Orcas than in any other of the islands. 

San Juan, the best known by name, and in size the seooad of these islands, is 
eleven miles long, by an average of three miles wide. Tliere is more land avail- 
ible for agriccdture here than on any other of the group ; and of this the Hudson 

H MmM Froym m BritiJk CoimmtU md T€ 

Bftj Comfonj took adfaatagesoaie jean ago^ and ritihfahfd a jfai a liiiii vpoa 
it. T&ia &nii &as erer snee ia eatablisHnicnt been. m. efaargie •£ 3ir. Ctfifi% a 
geufleiiHU E wfLoae tfrfrfneii* and loraibntT render ium ererj one^s friend. Ic is 
■iliiitLii i)n. a teaotifiit pnone at ime soiirhr«aat aid of the iaiiaiid, wiuich, riasa^ 
mt: hnaikred nad iHtr feet ibore tbe water, kxda most attractrve to the 
cmignuu paaaing onwanl towirds tile Fcaaer. I kare Berer sees wild i l u w ws 
ckewAeca gnw witk the beaat j and iKzmriaBce thcj poseaa here. Ferfcaps I 
csomot jnaarme the atGraciioaa of Sia Jaaa Wetter thaa faj- a^ni^ tt w«i tke 
^pot selected bj Eia exceileu^ the giprcmor'a danghtrr sod nieee la which to 
spend thesr liflBejinoon. 

At one tiaii» tba Ciipiwy had a» laaoy a» thw tltooaaad sheep ott the 
irfand. 3fr. Griffin's hoaae is tcij pleasantly situated, (oolong out oo the 
Ckraxts of Foeay and comman&ig a magnificent fie w of Admiralty lalci. 
Direcdj in fiEMit of it Ees a baak, which is a very fiLToozite fishing 
station Off the In£aas, and where the j catch a fatfge auiahef of wihnnM 
aad halibBt. This spot was, in I8o9, the seene of a nraidcr, whieh 
soKissd no fittle ysJstion, that wiB pcobaUj nerer be satisfied in this 

Mr. Gvrifia told the stosj thas : He was sitting in his baleoiij one swDner 
aftemooa watrhmg^ a reaad woridne her waj np the Strait, when he saw two 
boats, each containing one nan, pnU past in the direction of Yictona. He was 
ntber snrpdscd at aceii^ them thus sna^-haaded, bat at that tiaie, when the 
Ifstd-lcTer was rasing icmij, every sort of boat was empfefed to cross the Strait, 
and hcconrhidfd that tbej were two Anicricasa^aaking their way froBi Beiliag- 
ham Baj to Yletoria. The j had hardlj ronadsd the point, joat beyond the £arm^ 
luid passed ontof hiss^^, when a small canoe with asin^^ ladianshot past in 
the same £reetioD. Tnere was nothing in aQ this to attract part^fiUp noticf^ 
and ^Ir. Grifia was surprised when, an hoar or so later, two boats^ which he at 
once ftooeldsed as those that had so latefr passed, drifted into Tiew, floating 
back, to SL anpcsraaee, emptj. A canoe was at once sent out to than, when 
oae was lonad cropt j, and m the odsr by tiie bodj of a white man, shot, but 
not nillagedy even the pro¥iak»s that weie m his boat being untonehed. Who 
shall saj who his marderer was ? Had his white coakpaaion shot bora, 1»™W^ 
and pushed off his boat ? — for, except in the boat in which the mnrdmd man 
lay, not a drop of Uood could be seen — or had the Indian killed him, and had 
has eompaaioD, on seeingthc fatal shot fired, leaped OTerboard and been drowned ? 
If so, it was in rerenge, for nothing was taken from the boats ; perfai^ in per- 
ferraanee of that datv which is s& eonsidertd ** sacred" — ^tf one may use the 
wotd:— among the Indians^ of takii^ a Itfe lor a Hfe. 

San Juan Island Is the only one of the whole group worth anythiiig 
for purposes of colonisadon, while it only contains a few thousand acres 
of good land. To allege, therefore, Commander Majne pertineiitly re- 
marks, that an island of snch paltry extent is of any real Talae in thia 
respect, either to a coontry possessing the adjacent island of Yancoaver 
and territonr of British Colombia, or still more to one possessing the 
himdreds of miles of fertile prairie in Washington Territory, Qregmi. 
and California, is manifestly absurd. A study of the chart, howoTer 
win show quite clearly why the country that holds Vancouver Island 
and Britbh Columbia must also hold San Juan Island, or give up the 
right of way to her own possessions. It will be seen at once that the 
party that holds this island commands the canal of Haro. The narrowest 
part of the channel from shore to shore is five miles^ This distance from 
San Joan can certainly be kept by steamers, but they must be thoroughly 

Beceni Progress in British Columbia and Vamiauver Island. 55 

aoqaiunted wMi the Davig^tioa to do ao, as thejr timst passj inside saTer^l 
rem, and ffesjb of Sydney Island. To go up the centre of the, channelr-^ 
as hi|^ slups sfhould do-— San Juan must be parsed, at. two znilesV distance^ 
SQ.mqst ^gt^nry and Stu^ Islands also, tioth <>£ which would .hdong to 
the nation hokUng. the, east side of thecanal of Haro^ 

.^VSaiii.Jusmi oan be of no use to any countiy but Great Britaan, except 
for pensive purposes ; and, on the other hand, it cannot be of uny use 
to her but for defensitfe purposes, as its eastern shore in no way controls 
or affects the Rosario Strai^ from the western side of which it is eight 
mles di^pt atijtbe neareal pmiity with Ixypez Isfattd between.^ 

^he sAiiie argument ihight ^ used ajg^ajnsi our. holding possession of tbe 
isIttAds trhicli'TOfm th6 WeSiiern iide of the Kosaab Strait, .biui heire Natufo 
befrkruds -is ; for, during our sart^ey, we fmmd there was a middle channel pass- 
ine eastwards*^ 'San Jnan, And a small iskbd north' of it, t^aHbd ''Waldrbtt 
Ipbuld," which <clian]iel,: though not eo wide as either* of the oihersj is t^iiite safe^ 
for steam., pATi|^aUon« ,.A boniidar74ine,theeefone> passrar dowiLthe middle' 
channel woidd give to the nations on either side a road to their dominions perv 
fectly free of interruption, and well out of shot of each other, for some years to 
come at least ^ and this certainly appears the simplest and best sohitiOii of the 
difficulty. ' . /. :•■ 

... .:••••■••••■• -^1' 

. !tfi^ alternative is good in a strategic point of Wew, ibat it is not 
flattenng to a just sense of right. The Yankees possess all the rast main* 
Lund south of San Juan de Fuca Strait and of the fprty*nnith. pftrallel, of 
which « yet mere fragments^ of the most limited extent, ^e under culd* 
vatkm, or in any way turned to profit; and it is only f^ few years ago 
thai Washingtcm and Oregon Territories were a grasping and 
overbearing policy ; yet they must now claim such portions of the arcbi* 
pelago iiiithf Gulf of Georgia as eomniand the passage between the 
harbour and capital of Vaneouver Island and British Columbia^ lind that 
not lor defeoaiYe purposes, for the Yankees have as yet no possessions oit 
the shore of Washington Territory that would be worth attacking if any 
one should drei^m of such foQy ; nor yet for the value of the isls^nd, which, 
is almost null, and certainly not to be compared with the.mainland, but 
only for offensive purposes in the two senses of < the w^rd.. This is not. 
cpnauct wprthy of a great power ; it is a gp*a8ping^ offidous, and unprin**' 
cipled system of proceeding, which will one day lead to the jaine reprisals 
on the part of the nations of the north as they grow up in number and 
pvospenty, as it has done in the south, where the French eagles have, 
planted themselves with the avowed purpose of controlling tlve utter dis- 
regard shown by the blustering advocates of the Monroe doctrine to tho 
fetlings, interests, or rights of the rest of the human family. 

The JPkimper remained exploring the Haro Archipelago till the 16th 
of May, ao4 on its return to Esquimalt, its crew found themselves in the 
midrt of the g^td-fever. Everything was bustle and movement. Mftny, 
Commander Mkyne tells us, must have lost their Hv^s attempting to cross 
from Victoria to the Fraser in boats and canoes, and many mm. exposure^ 
want, and h^rd living at the mines. But even these were few in com- 
parison to the hundreds lost in trying to cross the continent to .California 
in 1849, whose bones are now bleaching in the Sierra Nevada* Although 
there was no revenue for the purpose, saye the license for mining, the 
govcxmof set to vrork opening up a route to the upper country, by which 

96 IkdM JR 'wy iw in JBriHik ColumOa and Vanetrnver hland^ 

the iBRivrt inigiit jovniej nith e om parg t iTe safety, and supplies be c»n- 
vejed 'to them. Tin foute has been «inoeksewn as the Harriscm^LiHoett 
tnuL Ther tfifficukiea of the work ^ we are tokl^ can scarcely be estknated 
hy Mxtjfme who has not seen British Cokimbian bush. " Cities" sprang 
vp at the same time in Washington Territoryy oonsisding of a liquer- 
•tote, a^ "piMrthHsftee^ and two or three huts at Semiahmoo awed Point 
Roberts, l^hese '*^ Bogvs^ cities^ as ihe mom staid Yanloeea call them, 
■re to be fmnid all ofer bUeir eonntrj, and many df them, to use their 
awn phrase, ^^ care in;" and this was soon the fatte of Roberts and 
Semiahmoo-<eltie8, for in less than eix months iktey were deserted. 

The governor of British Cdumbia appears to have been a^man <|iKte 
Bp to the mark at siioh « crisis. F«w, indeed, eould have4>ettn more so. 
A UnstenBg Kankee wioBt to Jiiai one 'dwy with ihe notion of hn^hig 
hM% and be^an by asking perauseioa £»r a nttmbwof catiaeosof the Bis- 
«Bited Staites fto eettie oo some particakir spots of land. They wooki he 
reqnired^ h^ was informed, to take the oath of allegiance. 

^ WeH,^' snid he, ''but suppose we eame there and sqofttted ?*' 

*'Yoa would be turned off." 

"But if several hundred came prepared to resist, what wouU you 

' *' We^should ««t tiiem fio mmoeweat, Mr. ^— ^ ; ^ive ^ooM «ut them 
to muieemeat. 

The stcryis not only good in iUse^ bttt k cdso (dbows-the amffiMrhy 
idttch the Yaakeeft'are actuated in America. They think anything ««n 
be done by £»ree, aald that all that is done by force is justifiable. Her 
Majesty's gO'Vfmmeot has been too O0i}€idepate to press the Sa/n Juan 
ywBt ion whilethe ^itates have been •embarrassed by domestic broils, Imt 
k is probable 'that if they had settled tlie question, Yankee^ £eisbioB, we 
ahenld llavw 'heard nothing more about it. 

Winter hrooght with it an exodus of the mining popnlatiofi to Cali- 
fcmia. These wImi remained at the mines, and braved a British Colun* 
Uan winter, bad much to suffer, and many privations to undergo. It was 
•tone time, indeed, feared that the whole inland populaticm would be 
atarved outri^it* The report of dtstuthances at Yale, ninety miles up 
the Fraser, took Commandar Mayne up that river in a canoe in the 
inoBth of January. These dietuibances were fomented by a Yankee of 
a Tery nharaeteristic type**-a man who had been a judge iu CaUfornia, 
had himaeif murdered many men, and has since been elected to the 
House of Representativea of one of the border states that lie east of ihe 
Rocky Mountains. 

It was at this epoch (jhat Colonel Moody, R.EL, chief commisaooer of 
hmds and works, detected New Westminster, or Queenboroogh, as it was 
first called, for the aapi?tal of Bri^h dohimiHa — it having been decided 
Hiat Derby, or New Lang^y, the spot first selected, was not 'desirable. 
The site <^ New W^e^minster is, we are told, so far as its geogn^hical 
pDsitioii is ^concerned, very good indeed, as it is also in a strategical point 
of view; but the biish there is very thick, while at Derby there was a 
kwge space of clear ground. It has many natural advantages, however, 
in whi^ Derby is wanting, not the least being sufficient depth of water 
im allow the hurgest ohiss of vessels capable of passing "die sand-heads at 
the Fraser mou^ to moor alongside of its wharves. 

la th^ «pmi|^ of 1859 « newdiffimilty arose £00111 ikm ininng;nrtioB'af 
the NM^iiieiii IndkBft, a nttcii finer a&d tiiore wadUoe vaoe ihan "the 
fioBgliies, 4ihe triW Imngmt' and im the netgihbowiioad of ¥icloiria»iOiv 
Mbed, tbaA anj «f the Soathem tnket. These lAdHUiB ncrifr <<piiit 
esMugJb ^?vftiea eeber, but they ffot dnx»k>,<9v4ienever they had <» ciunoi^ 
WfKM Am pittdnce of the sale^of fam and ektnS) ond tkoa ^leoame <|oi*i 
lamnntgeaMo. Tbey nvere aii «raMd, haTmg liad ti>'itl*aTel mroi^ 
beetiie tribes At Ifixst «a attempt was VMkde to seed: them hack, list 
this hft«tttg beeft fou«d to bo inpraetieable, they w«re 'Bettied in oaoi^ 
of tbeir <o«r»y Hhsir nruibets weio taken «way, * sehool iras buiiiiBr then^ 
«Wch WIS wottiatteaded, andtthoy ^aesod the Mtmuier qnietiy eooagli. 

Commaoder ISiayAO vas employed in the sprmg'ctf 1859iDn s sorrey 
of the Fvaoer Rmr, the sand-baak at the ontmioe of ^niaeh ao eailled ikm 
fitaPgeoB Bai^, fi^oin 4^0 mnnbiw <of tiMse fish caught by thoindaaw 
«peA k. Tke saylgotioo at tke-oiitKaoce preaeats, hooievor, -no diffiealtiaa 
like the Columbia, and it is «ot aacoavaAon to^ hear aaettlar of fidtiah 
Cohiaihiay hotween y^hkk and Vanooafer isUmd imich vivahy already 
esiate, make the assertioa that the sole use evvdontly iotaaded fay stataxa 
Cor that iskfid was to form a kpeakwater for thoFrasor Rbrer aad the 
other ioleta of the maialaad! The banks of the river for some sevieiity 
aaifea iroia ita rooudi are in plaeea k>w, and Habie'tebeinp flooded in tM 
aprifig and summor. They are, however, very fertUe, and a gveat deid 9i 
£ae iuflf ia seat hoooe to Victoria €9t forage; AA^ ^^«w Weslasiiator the 
4Nuik riseSf and fernia an adaiiraUe positioii tforthe aew iowa; ■■'■ Mory 
Bdl, apoa wtiich it is proposed to plant the oitadal» rises aome three or 
fenr hiiDdped feet. The town had ak^ady a thrmng aapeott. A ohnrA 
had heeii buiit^ together with a treasmy and a ooart^ieaseb its atreeta 
Coasted also ^ two or three very^r *' restaaraati," aoaio good whanea 
aad stores, and several private houses. fiat^aaComiaander Mayoe le* 
anatrks, if, «s seeoas aioat piiebabio, the tide of colooMlBoa icontioaes to 
fle^ aorthward, and a roate to >the aitnes ahoidd be dbeorered up aad 
froBi the head of o&e of the aaiae^ous inlets aoTth of the fVaser, New 
Wertattoater may never repay the' lahoor that haa alteady been spent 
opoa 4t. This, however, may he open to doubt, Ibr supposiag the futoia 
population to concentrate upon some more central spot^ as Liik)ett, New 
Weatanaster might still remain the port of the country; Fifteeo miles 
kigher «p is Langley, where the steamers from Victoria are stopped hy 
&e shaHowaees of the rrrer, and their cargoes, human aad matenaly 
traas^Brved to the siera-wheel steamers and &e boats aad oatioes, whidi 
fimn this point do battle with the swift, uncertain stream, tendered a 
htmdred tnoes aHn*e difficult ^ aavigation by the aamerona snags. 

At' a dktaaee of aixty-five mites itom the moa^ -of the Frassr the 
Harrison rii^r ia reached, t^ which runs the Hamson^-Liiloett matey 
which has aow become the prioeipal road to the inland settiotaents. The 
jomtney vt aoeo»phshed first by steamer up the Harrisea Rrver and Lake 
t» Fort Dougks, thence by a hmad waggoo-roed to Port Lilkett, a 
atatiea at the-aoul^ end 6f Lilloett Lake. From Litioett, the lake afRirda 
Ik meanaof transport to Pemberfeon, whence another road is cmened to the 
aoudi-weat end of Lake Anderson, which is 4dmoat eonaeoted with Setoa, 
a lake of similar sbse, from the apper end o€ which the route to Cayooriiy 
or LiUoett, apoa t^ Fraeer, is only <lliree or lear aaifca. By thia route 

38 M*eeiit ^vgra* va JSriiUh Columbia and Vancouver Island. 

the dangers of tlie Traaer above Yale are avoided, «nd a distance oF aome 
one hundred and twenty miles of the piost peiilouB travcllitiK saved. 

Hope, which is at tlie end of the steam navi^ion in the iOasar, ia 
perhaps the prettiest town on the .river. Indeed, until Cayoosh,, or, -aaSt 
is now called, Lilloett, ia reached there it no other aettJement that will 
bear comparison with it, Yale, fifteen miles above Hope, is at the head 
of canoe or boat, as Hope is of the ateam navigation. Above it are the 
rapids, known as the " Cauoiis." These " Oanona," of which there are 
two betweeil Yal? and Lytton, are narrow paweii duoagh which the 
river force's its way hetwCen sleep, in Some eases perpendiouloT, bank^ 
from three or four hundred to one thousand feet high. Miner* vrill 4are 
anything; and when Governor Douglas was at Yale, in' 1859, h« saw a 
inan who had actually cnme down through the '' Caaona" lasl^«a to-a 
large log of timber ! The trails which lead atonglide of, thesarCanOM 
are sometimes stopped by bulging and overhanging clifFa, (he trail coming 
up to them oii one side, and continuing again on the other. Tha diffir 
culty is, of course, to pass the intervening space. This is manajted by 
the Indians thus; they suspend three poles by native rope, made of deer- 
hide and fibre, from the top of the cliff, the inner end of the firat and 
third resting on the trail, and the middle one crossing them in the front 
of the bluff. Of course there is nothing to lay hold o^ and the onlywaf 
is for the traveller to etrelch out Iiis arms and clasp tb« rock at much:** 
possible, keeping his face close against it ; if he gets djziy, at makea ■ 
false step, the pole will, of course, swing away, atid he wiU t^pte over 
into the torrent, wiiich rolls hundreds of feet beneatik! .Ttie .landalifw 
in the mountain crevices are also very dangerons.i - Tke , Bisbt^l oC 
Columbia has, however, travelled in person by tliis perilous route. : .JL 
road has since been begun from Hope to Boston Bar, &I the raoath-of 
the Anderson Eiver, and forty miles above Yale, *hich will avoid llie. 
" Canons" altogether. At Boston Bar the Fraser valtey opeoB out « 
little, and between it and Lyttou several flats occur, which will some day^ 
no doubt, be converted into pretty little farms. Tiiase, flate.or benohes; 
as they are called, are all covered with a long, sweet grasSyOfwhic^ cattle 
and horses are exceedingly fond, and wliich has a wonderful. eSeot. is 
fattening them. . . , , ■ 

Lytton consisted, at thiii epoch, of an irregular rovf. of .lome . doseo 
wooden huts, a, drinking- saloon, an expre^-oSce, a. large , court-house, 
and two tittle buildings near the river. Commander AJAyne turned^ 
II this point up the Tliompson River, by a succeaaion. of 'val|eye.Bi)ffi- 
clear of timber to make settling easy, well watered, aod-oovered 
>ng,. sweet grass. The scenery presented by ,tluB river Bud- tJw 
Nicola is described as being most lovely, and as preattUjng aremarrkt^le 
contrast with the coast, lined as it is witii dense, almost impenetrable, 
forests. Here, also, they first met with the mounted Indian* «f the 
interior, who were very friendly. A small chain of lake* »tret«Jied frpP^ 
the Nicola to the Thompson River, which they joined .at ^Mnloopl, a«e 
of the forts of the Hudson Bay Company. The paity.ctartcd henoe fot 
Pavilion, on the Fraser, accompanied by St Paul, the idd (hiaf of .(ha 
Siiuswap Indians. They had to ford several rapid river% and |ust befoie 
reaching Pavilion came to a small river which Join* the jFraaer aome 
twenty miles above Lytton, the valley of which has become the high losd 

Gently c 
,vith 1o[] 

Secmt Froffreu in British Columbia a^ Vancouver Island. 59 

from Lvtton to the Cariboo dig^inga. Near Pavilion Lake vias a farm 
— tlw'finMhaf they had seen plougbed ib ^ritisTi Columbia ; tlie land 
was gevd, attd i)i% owners — ^Yankee^ by-tbe-by^-^wei'e chieSV occu{t!»l 
in grotviA^Temtables for the minei^l Pavtllon—sd 'colled' fro'tn a' \atge 
itrbiie fln^'havuie; been kept flying ther^.'aftertKe fashtanOPtlie Indiaha; 
wet rtw' graM of fiae of their chiefs-— cfJoBisted at that titoe of 4' score or 
ger«f AJben'hgta, btit it has'slhce becothe'A' much jn'ore important placed 
fehniflg; 4 Bdrt'of head-quartera for the'mraera ati^ the miite-traiDS, whi, 
from' Parill6ji,'brknch north and south to the digglligs^t' ^lexand^a, 
Otribitoi'fltid K«*oloops. At PaviTlon', as'-at Lyttoii, & travellers Were 
mnOK'tolrmHttted bj tbe dtist. 

■ ThB'jterly"rtturiied'h'ence bytiie Harrison- Lilloett' hi tite to the'moiith' 
rf rte FthaM/ The first station metwilh Was Foiiutgin, a'iiiueh preltief' 
rfte'tbari Pavilloii;'iind sheltered by the river-bend fr<^m the gusty, north! 
snd aoiith Muds, whieh v/erd so nib|C6mfat{:4b)e both at L^ttoh and Pfi-' 
Villon. Beyond Uiis was a river, ovet which two eat^ppHslng '" citizenS"' 
hijS 'constructed' la bridge, for eroMing whiiih they chargefl dhe miiieil^ 
M^eM^vieeeiits. -'Sharp practice ^ d new coaiitt'y!' "'' ' 

-~'limAett,''%e1e«<'thif, is dfe>gcribed kk a Very [Ireity site;' decld'edly tlil^' 
best, Cttmriifcnde*' Mayne says, that he Saw on thfe Fraspi' Kvek ft has 
rioWgWrtri)' int* a Bomewhat. important town. On th'e.opp«ite Sid's af 
fteiTv** is iinbther large plfiteau,' bri which the H'Jdso'n.Bay Compatay 
■m%tb building' a fort, to be named Fort Berens, afCefo'ne of tfieir directors; 
Uende' tlilere ^re "restaurants" on the tml down. THe places so! 
cNtsigirated' aresimpty 'huts, -where' the' traveller 'cUn'tiUalii a Weal' of' 
b«ido#,' beani,- bread, mltbtitter, arid tea atld'coffee for' a dollar; wfiile if 
lie has' oo'tent with hini, he can Select, the softest 'plank fa the'iloor to' 
deep /in.- At'those Vm the T,owBr ^nUSr,' sometimes' iggsj' bee^' and' 
Vege^bles am be goK Ift the Lillbett Valley, the level sp6t,i were covered 
with iVihl peds. Vetches, lettuce, and Sflv^r^l sorts of WiWes.. Sevei^l' 
agriUultural settlers were already there, and i'c is described aa a Idveiy 
apitftir settlement. ' Port PembertdA consisted at this titrie of a couple 
cf "'restaurants"^ and half a doten hutu, occupied by'mul^teers and'boftt^ 

Eight miles from Port LilWtt is shot spring,' calM St Agnee't 
, after 'mi« (rf the goVemftr'a dsogbteM, Thk scBne|y on ^ei 
Harrison Lake is described as much ficer than on tl^ up^er Takes, aaA 

here ^ere also m My splendid cedara of the'coutitry, ^o caJlei^ as also in 
Jap*», ^nt in sE^ther country axe there true cedars. Cjin the I9th' of 

jEin«the|)arty i^oined the i'£u/n/)er at Es^nimalt. ' 

Jt wae kt this epoch that, whiJethe boumfary commissioners were hard 
al their wtwk, Qetteral Hamey, who had lately been appointed to the 
coMmand of <>eg^ and Washington Territories, suddenly landed soldiers 
on'Snn Juan klahd without anypretiOiis hotice, and who still reoiaia 
tbei<e.' The inland being at present held by equal bodies of troops (about 
one btmdred' men of eadi nation) of Great Britain and America. A 
gtambr mnd mon uncalled-for inauh to another nation's honour can 
scarcely be implied. If the Yankees wish to act by reason, the dif- 
fionltf might be submitted to arbitration ; if they wish simply to establish. 
Utriir righe t^ fince, it will undonbtedty lead sonle day or other to an 
ubitrameot'ttf a more disagreeable character, and for which British 
Oohnubift sn>d Vitncoover are scstt^ welt prepared ; ,but oeither are Ae 

60 S$eeKi Progresi in British Columbia ami Vaneowser btand, 

Yankees iti that remote quarter. There are, as we have before- dndea- 
TDured to mahe dear, three' chamielsr that of Rosario Strait (most in use, 
Old ^' the ehannel" par eminence) to the east ; Haro Strait, with a devioas 
eoorse, between Jli^resby and Stuart islands ; and Middle or Donglaa 
Ckann^. It wmiM be better, then, to make the boundaTT-Iine covirse 
ak>np^ the middle ol the hrtter, whieh gives ali l^e kr^ islands to the 
Yankees, with the exception of San Juan, than to 6ght about sneh nn* 
important territories, the posaesmon of which has been disputed in so truly 
a. Yankee feshion. 

The inlets whieh stretch infeiad at comparsctively small ntervals along 
the coast of British Columbia possess certain g^eral charaeteristios. 
liiey run up between steep mountains three or four thonsan^ feet in 
height ; the water is deep, and anchorages hr ifiromi plentiful ; while they 
terminate, almost without exception, in valleys^ — oecasioaally large and 
wide, at other times mere gorges^ — through which one or more rivers 
straggle into the sea. Burrard Inlet, the most southerly, is, however, 
lemarkable for its good anchorage aad for its coal mrines. When tlM 
Fraser is frozen up, the only access to British^ Columbia vs hy Port 
Moody, iiir this inJet, and which is only five miles from New Weirthiriinster. 
A right to construct a direct road to Alexandria by Bute Inlet has also^ 
been conceded to a company. Two other roirtes have been proposed from 
BeHioula Inrlet; but, consicbering the probable extension of the Cariboo 
cKggings northward to the Peace River, Commander Mayne thfnkrs that 
tiiie line of route proposed by other adventurers, running irom Dean's 
Canal to the Naehuten Lakes, and along the river of the same name to 
Fort Fraser, will still bear ofiP the palm, particularly if, as is very probable, 
Sluart River be found navigable for steamers from that place to Fort 
George, where it meets the Fraser. In the summer of 1859; Mr. Downie' 
e!qilcired a stiU more nerdiward' route from Port Essington, but this route 
is sa for north as to be unavailable for the greater part of the year. Port 
fisBington is net a lucky name in the histoiy of colonisation. 

The Plumper reeeived so much damage in these various and laborions 
supve^'s^ that she wast obliged to go to San Francisco in the spring of 
1860 to re6t, the British having, as we have before seen, no docks or re- 
pairing place in all Vancouver or British Columbia, the shores of Which 
are covered with fevest timber ! This acoompliisrhed^ the remainder of the 
summer was devoted to the survey of the north-east of Vancouver Island', 
and of Fort Rupert and Queen Charlotte Sound. There is more variety 
than would be imagined in the details of these 8urve}'S^ — overland expe^ 
ditions to Nanaiino,. ascents of mountains, shooting elk (wapiti) and deer, 
and, not least remarkable, the account of the earnest labomrs and successes 
of the Roman Catholic missionaries among the Indians. Afber an over^ 
land journey to Pemberton, during which they were nearly devoured' by 
miaquitoes, the Phrmper was joined by the ^^er^ and Termmffmit in her 

The year 1861 opened 1^ the crew of tile Plumper being turned over 
to die Heeate^ newly arrived', and in which they proceeded to explore the 
west coast, including Nootka, Barclay, and Clayoquot Sounds. These 
sennds «re of the utmost importance, opening as they do a way to l^e 
interior of Vancouver Island, in a coast previously supposed to be iron-^ 
boand and nnsppreachable. Barclay Sound is, like all the sounds of tile 

Becent Froffr^ss in British ColMwlna and Fancouwr IdtumL 61 

west coast of Vancoayer Island* subdivided into s&Teral smaUor sounds or 
arms, some of which are very curious^ running in a straight liae^ or very 
ncrarly so^ five or six. miles, between mountains three to four thousand feeA 
high, with, a breadth in many pUces of not mooe than fifty yaards, and 
y^t tluitty or forty fathoms deep, up to the head, which is invariably Aat» 
with a river mnnmg through it. Thia surpasses anything yet met wkh 
even in Norwaiy,. the Und of fiocds and inlets> and holds* out great pro- 
mises to the? future^ Already a. settlement called Albemi has sprunig up 
at the head of this remarkable inlet, in which both coal and limestone a^e 
met with^ frevious. to the discovery of the latter^ the colonists were 
dependent on clam-shells fnr lime. The soil is a]so> very rich, and the 
tupaber mag;niBceut — the Douglaa pine» growing to an coionnous siase,ABd 
the white pioe^ oak,, and yeUaw cypress also abounding* Alberni itself 
ia reached by a natural canal, twenty miles long, winch opens out into & 
large harbour. It is utterly impossible, indeed, to descsibe aU the ajatiottl 
advantages of these different places. Those interested must go ti> the 
fountain-head — the eausellent work of Commander Mayne. A tract o£ 
country has been g^canted in this sound to the Saw-mall Ccnnpany,. who 
are canying on. a brisk tradn. in spars and luoabsr with America, China* 
and Australia. It was here that the flagstaff whiehia erected in Kew^ 
Gardens was. G»ut. 

Qn the l<5tk of August, the Mecaie had the misfortima ta Tiia npooi 
tbe.xockss. in making the Strait of Fuca,. in a dense fng ; but was luckilji 
sot p£P oqLj with such damage aa to necessitate the usual expedition U^ 
San .£*rancisco — 9> CBoise which, in as far as Commander Mayne was eQaf>< 
ceined^. he having received the welcome news of his promoition in Clayo-^ 
^oi Souud» tesminated in Southampton docks. In, summing up tiM^ 
resources of her lilajesty Is dominions' in. the Pacific, Cpnunandei^ Mayne 
begins by diq^^ing of the Hudson's Bay Company, whose psetensioRa tft 
ax^> further tenure of such vast and important tenritooes he says shoid4 
he rightly unheeded^ That a.waggQnfroad wiU some day b» carried oi»ff 
the passes )q£ the Bocky Mountains that lie beyond the Bed River S^t- 
tkmentx. and^ between that point and. British Cwinnbia,. be. entertaiaa mt^ 
donht, and it mey, he sa^a, indeed be, that before Jong the^ whbtle, of tfaer 
loeomotive will' he heard l^nong thjem. 

Bettdea.gQld»,silyer,lead„ copper, iron, and plumbago faaKeahe beai^ 
met witlu. Cloal, we have seen^ aheunds in various places*. The aaitnral 
resjpurces of Bcitish Columbii^ aj}e, bowcRi^er, such as to give to it tbe^ 
greatest importance, quite independent of its mineral wealth. After the 
Cascade, or coast range of hills, all forest-clad down to the shores, are 
passed, and from Lytton upwards, the country assumes. an entirely dif« 
fereut aspect from that of the coast. The dense pine forests cease, and 
the land becomes open, clear, and in the spring and summer-time covered 
with bunch-grass, which affords excellent grazing for cattle. Several 
farms are now established in diff^pent^ parts ef this upper and interior 
country. The position of the Cariboo diggings will soon lead to its set- 
tlement, as well as hasten the opening of a feasible road across the 
Rocky Mountains. Land may now be obtained in British Columbia, 
under the enactments of the new pre-emption system, readily, and at a 
very low rate, in those parts of the country ^s yet unsurveyed; which 
include, indeed^ all but that immediately surrounding the settlements* 

62 Recent Progress in Bi-itish Columbia and Vancouver Island, 

An inteDding settler has merely to fix upon the site of his farm, and 
give such a description of its locality and boundaries as he is able to the 
nearest magistrate, paying, at the same time, a fee of eight shillings for 
its registration. These regulations extend, however, to one hundred and 
sixty acres only. A settler desiring to pre-empt a larger quantity than 
that, must pay down an instalment of 2s. Id. per acre. This payment 
entitles him to possession of the land until it is surveyed by the govern- 
ment, when the full value at which it may be assessed — which cannot, 
however, exceed 4s. 2d. an acre — becomes payable. In speaking of the 
resources of these colonies, the immense supplies of timber, fish, and g^me 
of many kinds, must not be omitted or lost sight of. There are also 
many wild fruits and edible roots and plants. Hops grow very well, and 
a species of tobacco *and tea are indigenous in British Columbia, and are 
in common use among the natives. A more self-sufficing country it is 
difficult to imagine. 

Lastly, the numerous tribes of natives are, thanks to the discriminating 
conduct of the Hudson's Bay and North- West Companies, friendly and 
well disposed. The missions among them have hitherto been most suc- 
cessful. Upon this subject we find the following interesting remarks 
made by Mr. Duncan, the most successful of all the missionaries: 
<* During my conver^tion with Captain Richards, he said the business be 
had just had with the Indians convinced him that it was not our ships of 
war that were wanted up the coast, but missionaries. The Indian's igno- 
rance of our power, and strong confidence in his own, in addition to his 
natural savage temper, render him unfit to be dealt with at present by 
stern and unyielding men of war, unless his destruction be contemplated, 
which of course is not. ^ Then,' asked the captain, ' why do not more 
men come out, since your mission has been so successful ? or, if the mis- 
sionary societies cannot afford them, why does not government send oat 
fifty, and place them up the coast at once p Surely it would not be diffi- 
cult to find fifty good men in England willing to engage in such a work? 
And their expenses would be almost nothing compared with the cost 
which the country must sustain to subdue the Indians by force of arms !' 
Such are the earnest sentiments of one of her Majesty's naval captain^, 
while among the Indians." " And such," says Commander Mayne, " I 
may add, are the sentiments of myself — in common, I believe, with all my 
brother- officers — after nearly ^vq years' constant and close intercoinrse 
with the natives of Vancouver Island and the coast of British Columbia. 


• ttx Ji,.viarArtE op tbb 38ih Middlesex (abtists) . , 

liKAYiso Counnayeur in a voitOre we proceeded to Aosta (my second 
^nt)i where I again inspected the Roman antiqultiej, the bridge, the 
trrAmphal arch, Amphitheatra, &c., all very interesting ; but not being aov 
the b^ect of toy miBBion, we passed on to Chatillon, where, leaving the 
vMtiire; 1 tooft to a tnnle, half way np the Yal Tournanctie, to a village 
bMring that name, and hmched at the little inn of Monte Rosa, kept 
by an old soldier, who deserves every eocouragement, as he supplies all 
oneVwantv at moderate char^, and with great good will. I said a ■ 
word or two in his favour in his " Livre des Etrangers," with which he 
SMDii^ l<TKhly pleased, but it WM i<i more than he deserved. 

'Soon after qoittiDgihis spot we passed a remarkable cascade, which „ 
loaad ila way tftran^ a deep chasm ib the rocks, truly a scene of savage, 
gniai«it, aai reminding me of many a similar sheet pf wf^er i^ de«r 

Prom the' vill^e of Val Tonmanche I walked to Breuil, where I 
fOMii-feir hanraof the night, intending to leave before daybreak to 
crosathe pass df the Col de St Th^odule. At the little ian at Breuil, 
smvbimdetl hy lofty mountains, conspicuous above all of which is the 
Beemiai>^r inaecessmle Matterhorn, raising its defiant head unlike any 
otbei> oioantun, 1 felt in with Professor Tyndall, who was neverthe- 
leaSi aboh« t* tftWmpt the ascent. It was late in the evening when 
he-'fn)terDd''tbe salie a manger (if I may dignify the apartment by 
thM Mm«), ' «tod deeply interested as I was with his conversation 
aboht' tltt gladft^, would have gladly sat up the greater part of the 
nig^t with him; As it wa«, hdwever, I took an abrupt departure 
at'BineP.H.; Intending to me at one a.m., and breakfast at two, which 
gave'iwe four faonrs rest out of the four -and- twenty, which intention 
I cWfied into efi&ct, starting ere break of day with three young 
m4a (broth^) from Wadham College, Oxford, who, with their guide, 
wen' bound for Zermatt by the St. Theodule. Fron> what I had read 
of this pass in Miinay— viz, "that it is the easiest of the high glacier 
paHM of the Alps," — " ivhen the snow is firm mules are taken across," 
I thought I was about to have an easy, agreeable little tramp over the 
Snmmit, which is nearly eleven thonsand feet above the sea-level. But 
I found myself mistaken, as we had to flounder through the snow knee- 
deep, and to pass two or three rather ugly places, which Professor Tyndall 
the previous night cautioued us that we should find. As for any four- 
footed beast crossing it in its present atats^-even a chamois — I should 
donht the possibility, and should strongly advias any one proposing to 
escort ladies across, to make inquiries Grst as to the condition of the Pass. 
How any female could have crossed it in its present state I &m at a loss 
to conceive. After passing the summit, we were frequently sinking 
up to our thighs in snow. If this wading through the soft snow was 
anything but pleasant, I must not omit to say that the first part of the 
ascent on terra firma (from Breuil) was most channing and attractive. 
Mat/ — vol. czxTtn. no. dix. f 

64 Ascent ofMarUe Rosa in 1862. 

We started in the dark, or nearly so. There was no moon, but the stars 
were out, and as they began g^dually to fade away, the morning star 
still shone bright, and the dawn of day wa»moat lovely, with its exquisite 
roseate tints lighting up the snowy peaks of the mountains which sur- 
rounded us. I never saw anywhere, in any part of Europe, nor on any 
mountain-side, hill, or dale, so great a variety and wonderful profusion 
of the most beautiful wild flowers^ It might well be ealled w oupet, and 
that, too, of the most lovely mixture of colouca* 

On the summit of the St. Th^odule is a little hut, in whic^ one or two. 
men pass a few weeks during the summer months, and wihece we got 
some mulled wine, which was most acceptahk^ It was a beaatiful da^^ 
and the Breithom* gHstening ia sunahine with, its spacklingkA and aoawi^. 
looked most in^ting. 

Three hours was all that would be required to make the asaent.from: 
this point* There was, moreover, the inducement of aeoompanying 
three "fine young Englbh gentlemen,. all of the present time^" highly, 
educated, agreeable, good humoured, and with any amount of pludc, 
but, alas ! I failed in the latter to-day. I had. been ill at Aosta, pro- 
bably from the sudden change of climate, for there is- a vast difference 
of climate on one side o£ Mont Blanc and on the other, and particularly 
so horn the glacier to the valley, and having been only four hours in 
bed at Breuil, I voted the Breithom a bore, and declined, the pressing 
invitation of my young friends. They were noviae» in the work, and 
seemed rather surprised at my suggesting that they should mount veils^ 
and more so when I recommended them to grease their faces with a 
tallow-candle. The latter they declined to do upon any termi^ but they 
got some kind of makeshift for the veils. Away they started with their 
guides, all tied together with the rope, and it was a pretty sight to 
watch them as they progressed, getting smaller and smaller, and look^ 
ing like little black specks in the snow on the ude of ^e mountain- 
After resting a short while on the summit of tlra St, Theodule, I pro*' 
ceeded with my guide, and arrived at an early hour in the afternoon 
at Zermatt, d^ighted beyond measure with the one g^nd feature of 
the route, the noble, lofty peaked Matterhom, that majestic mountain 
and mass of rock, so angular and so precipitous that the snow cannot 
lodge long upon it, and envelop it, as it does on nearly all the other 
mountain peaks which surround it, and which shows its bold^ uncovered 
head in a most remarkable and, at I have said, defiant manner. Pro* 
feseor Tyndall, however, will, I think, accomplish the ascent next season ^ 
bad weather frustrated him this last summer. He made the attempt the 
same day that I ascended Monte Rosa, on which occasion I noticed 
how the clouds clung like a belt round the Matterhom all- the day, the 
top, however, being generally entirely clear. I nevertheless doubted his 

Zermatt itself is disappointing, and but for the Matterhom would have 
little to interest me. The Riffelberg is the point of attraction. At. 
Zermatt, however, I remained the night, and passed the following day 

A friend of mine, a member of the Alpine Club, and a private of the 
21st Middlesex (Civil Service), Lord Bury's corps, who made the ascent 
of Monte Rosa in 1869 (and firom whose journal I shall hereafter quote),, 
gives so clear an account of the formation of glaciers' that I oaanotdo 

Ascent of Monte Rom in 1862 65 

better iihan insert it here for the information of my readers, as. it is the 
best and most concise of any I have read : 

^< Where a Racier is miich:b^w the snow4ine its surface will be clear 
ioe, free from ail overlying snow, which is melted by the summer sun 
and mild showers. Aocordingly, its actual surface is exposed, its craoks 
and inequalities, its crevasses and its dangers, are open to the view, and. 
if but moderately level there is no better or safer walking. 

''If, however, the trav^dier ascends to higher levels and altitudes, he 
wHl find the suriace of the glacier changed in its aspect. He will now 
find it entirely covered wkh snow (this, in the technical language, ia 
called the neve); and although it looks beautifully smooth, amd mucbi 
easier than its rougher but more honest face lower down, it is here that! 
there are those dangerous hidden crevasses that have of late giren ta> 
glaciers so bad a. name. Under' this crust of snow lurk exactly the same 
crevassea as show themselves openly in the lower portion of the gUcier. 
In its crisp, frozen state in the early morning, \hB bridges of snow over 
the deep odd gul& offsr ai^firm and aecuie footing, and scarcely show the 
print ef^ ^ naila that stamp a foothold upon them. But a few short 
hours afterwards^ however, under the influence of a summer, sun, they 
will crumble like dust under the pedestrian's weight, and but for the 
indispensable rope (to be tied securely round the waists o£ all, guides, 
especially), he would be precipitated down the cold, blue, icy abyss some 
sixty, hundred, or more feet dosm ;. from which, as experience has nov^ 
but too ofren shown us^ no one musl}. look agsun to emerge alive. Such 
was the unhappy fiite of an English traveller in the Tyrol last Septem- 
ber, from, the slmmeful ignorance and neglect of his guide; and. the year 
before, on the Fendelen glacier, near Monte Rosa, where a Russian gen- 
tleman perished yet more miserably, after several hours of peculiar 
agony, wedged in his ioy prison* With a good rope, however, good. 
practised guides,^ and some personal readiness and experience, there is, I 
believe, no real danger." 

As regards this latter- remade, I am sorry that I cannot altogether 
ag^ree with my friend. I think the danger real unless there are at least 
five or six attached by the rope ; then, and then only, is the danger re-^ 
duced to a minimum. 

It may be of use to others if I mention what befel the young 
Oxonians. They made good their ascent of the Breithom, and arrived 
five hours afiter myself at the hotel. I observed that their ^es were 
idready much disfigured ; but at night they were all three aeuoed with 
dreadfril pain in the eyes, one of them in perfect agony, so bad that he 
told his brother tiiat he thought he could not live the night. This 
young man was next day all but totally blind, the others had their eye- 
sight greatly affected. The landlady was used to this kind of thing, and 
like the generality of the fair sex, was most kind and attentive and 
assiduous in her endeavours to afford them relief. Their faces were 
terribly blotched and disfigured the following day. Two of them soon 
recovered, but the third was not able to see for two or three days. I 
have never had a particle of skin off my face, although I have not alto- 
ge^eresci^ied inflamed eyes. 

This *^'8now blindness" is an extraordinary affection. It requires but 
an hour or two on the glacier» to produce it» Neutral tmted speetaclas 


66 Ascent of Monte Rosa in 1862.. 

are the best preservative, I believe, but I have never used them, finding 
the veil sufficient in my case ; but as it is necessary to remove this in 
dangerous places, as it impedes the vision, I have in so doing got my 
eyes inflamed. Two gentlemen at the RifFel, who had been up the Cima 
de Jazzi, returned in a similar plight. One of them told me that he 
oould not at first distinguish day from night, but he recovered in a few 

It was on a Sunday afternoon, in the summer of 1861, when at Cha- 
mounix, that I suddenly resolved to try the ascent of Mont Blanc. It 
was on a Sunday afternoon at Zermatt, the following year, that, after 
resting a night there, I suddenly determined upon the ascent of Monte 
Rosa. Jean Marie Couttet and his nephew, Mark Tiarraz, were most 
desirous that we should go up by ourselves, unattended by any guide of 
Zermatt. Couttet had made the ascent once, and was perfectly confident 
that he could lead me safely to the summit, as he knew the route ; but I 
did not feel myself justified in running the risk, which, if it came on to 
be bad weather, might (even with the most experienced guide of the 
locality) be serious enough. To be caught in a thick mist, or in a snow- 
storm, either on Mont Blanc or on Monte Rosa, or, indeed, upon any of 
the High Alps, would be a position of extreme peiil at all times, and one 
I always shudder to contemplate. 

I therefore determined to have one of the best known guides of 
Zermatt to accompany us, leaving the selection to Couttet 

At four P.M. he came to me to inquire my final determination, '^ as 
the weather,'' he said, ^* was on the change, and that it was desirable to 
profit by it, before it broke up.'* " It's like myself," I remarked, " on 
the balance, quite unsettled ; but engage a first-rate guide that you can 
depend upon, and in a couple of hours we will start ofi^, to sleep at the 
Rijffel at all events." Shortly afterwards he brought into my apartment 
one Jean Rronig, whose services I engaged. He must have thought me 
a man of few words, for I was tired and bored, and was poring over a little 
book, descriptive of all the horrors of the ascent of Monte Rosa ; so I 
only took a glance at him, and said, '* Oh, he'll do, I suppose," or some 
such curt, uncivil remark. 

It took about a couple of hours to ascend the Riffel. We met an Ober- 
land guide coming down, who had accompanied my nephew and. myself 
on a tour in 1860, and we were mutually pleased to greet each other with 
a hearty shake of the hand. 

One gets much attached to these guides when they are men of the 
right stamp ; and they, too, are no less attached to you, and would do 
anything to serve you. I hold them in the g^reatest admiration and 

Their humble virtues, hospitable home. 
And spirit patient, pious, proud and free : 
Their self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts : 
Their dajs of health, and nights of sleep : their toils 
By danger di^iified, yet guiltless. 

I have found them highly intelligent, courageous, devoted, and un- 
selfish, ready to do anything in their power to contribute to one's 
safety or personal comfort, and to supply you with all the information in 
their power, and to meet your wishes in every way. And yet, some men 

Ascent of Monte Rosa in 1862. 67 

will tell you that they ** have found guides an encumbrance rather than 
an assistance." They must have had some of the worst, I should think, 
and if so, they would indeed be an encumbrance. A traveller cannot be 
too careful in selecting his guides, if he means to do work. There are 
men of all sorts among them — some perfect rubbish, worse than useless, 
" an encumbrance" truly ! Happily, I have escaped them, but good 
guides are beyond all praise. 

Arriving in the evening at the little chalet on the Riffel, I obtained a 
comfortable meal, and retired to bed at nine p.m«, intending to take 
three hours' rest, to rise at twelve o^clock, and start punctually at one 
A.M. But owing to Couttet being obliged to sleep in an adjoining house, 
and not being able to rouse the inmates and gain admittance, it was near 
two ▲.!£. when he tramped into my room, and three o'clock before we 
were able to g^t fairly off on our errand. The delay of these two hours 
was a serious loss to us, and greatly prolonged our ascent of Monte Rosa, 
as will be seen in the narrative, adding not a Httle, too, to our labour in 
making good our return. Perhaps, however, it was the means of saving 
our necks in descending the Riffelberg to the glacier, the path being 
narrow and precipitous, and there was no lantern forthcoming at the 
ch^et to guide us in the dark. 

Fortunately the day was beginning to dawn ; it only required a little 
caution. But I would here advise all travellers to provide themselves 
at Zermatt with this very necessary article ; that is to say, if they follow 
my advice, and start at midnight, or as soon after as possible, which 
would be the best way, though not the usual one, I believe, in making 
the ascent. 

Leaving the Riffelhom, a very remarkable rock (of extraordinary 
shape), on our right, our party, consisting of Jean Marie Couttet, 
Jean Kronig, Mark Tiarraz, and myself, reached the Gorner Glacier at 
the foot of the Riffelberg without any dislocated limbs, and, at this early 
hour of the morning, found it hard frozen ; but there were occasional 
treacherous spots, where the thin coating of ice gave way and soused 
one's feet into pools of water. This should be most studiously avoided. 
To start with wet feet might end in their being frostbitten, and if bad 
weather set in they would most assuredly become so. Many such 
casualties have occurred on the High Alps. My shoes (like my face) 
were so well greased, and came so much above the ankle, with the tongue 
stitched to the sides of the shoe, that, happily, I sprung no leak, and 
suffered from no excoriation of visage. 

^' If you want a thing well done, do it yourself," is a good maxim. I 
generally greased my own shoes. In early life, '^ nolens volens," I had 
to grease many a cricket-ball, so, as we never forget any accomplishment 
we acquire in our youth, I found the gpreasing of shoes quite a natural 
occupation. As regards the g^asing of the face with tallow, it requires, 
I admit, a strong mind; but I take to it kindly, as most men of sense 
would do when recommended by the faculty to swallow a black dose. 
Touching a tallow-candle, however, I must not mislead any one. I met 
a gentleman who had made the ascent of Monte Rosa just before myself, 
whose face was something the colour of a boiled lobster ; but when I 
descanted on the merits of a dip, by which he might have preserved his 
beauty, he told me that notlung could be more dangerous, as it was no« 


68 Jscent of Monte Rosa in 1862. 

torious that arsenic -was often mixed with the tallow to make it white, and 
that if it got into the system, it would he certain death. On naming this 
to Couttet, he said that '^ they did not know of such things here." The 
arts and sciences have not yet rea(^hed them. Poor benighted mortale ! 
living on pure unadulterated food, when will the light of joivilisation 
dawn upon you all ! 

As the study of the glaciers is one of deeper interest, however, than 
the study of defrauding your neighbour, even in the matter of a tallow- 
candle, I will now call the attention of my reader to a somewhat remark- 
able formation on the Glacier du Gomer Grat, whioh lies at the foot of 
Monte Rosa ; I allude to what, for want of a name, I shall call the 
'^ Slab Structure." I do not find, nor does my memory serve me to 
have read, any allusion to it in the works of Ag^ssiz (who made the 
glaciers of Monte Rosa his particular study), iior in those of Profossors 
Forbes, Tyndall, or Wills, or other eminent men, although I think that 
they must have noticed it. 

I found the whole sur&ce of that portion of the Gomer Grat, whidi 
lies immediately at the foot of Monte Rosa, studded with innumerable 
slabs of ice, varying from six or eight inches in height, to twelve or 
eighteen, with vertical sides facing due north, and rising above the level 
surface of the glacier like so many tablets, which, with the light upon 
them, presented a very singular appearance, like a icast burial-gronod ; 
they were rounded off on the obverse side, and, in point of fisict, weve 
sections of cones, which, as every one knows, are common to all gkcieiB. 
.In front of ;the8e tablets I found, without a single exception, a small reser- 
voir, or basin of water in the ice, all partaking of one form, viz« the seg- 
ment of a circle, at the bottom of which was a deposit of grit. The 
^formation struck me as singular, being wholly unlike anything that I had 
<ever observed on other glaeiers, upon which for the last three yean I 
had passed the summers, making them my study, l^ot being able to 
account for the formation, nor why the vertical sides of these semi-ooncB, 
with the basin at their foot, should invariably face due north, I merely 
tcall attention to the fact in the hope that others will take notiee of i^ 
and enlighten me upon the subject. Some of our small drinking-^oun- 
ttains placed against the wall of a building will convey some notion of' the 
ice structure I alhide to. I never isaw a precisely similar formatioa on 
any of the glaciers I have visited. 

Of all -these there is not one, not even excepting the turnpike-road 
over the Mer de Glace from Chamounix by the Mauvais Pas to the 
Chapeau, which is so easily traversed as the Gomer Grat. It appeared 
to me, .as 1 crossed it at this early hour of morning, to be entirely free 
from crevasses. 

Viewed from the glacier, Monte Rosa is visible (as Professor Tyndall 
H»ys) **from top to bottom." There it stands directly in front of vwi> 
.and so deceived is the eye, that you think it can be but a small matter to 
reach its summit. Surrounded by gigantic mountains of snow and iee, 
there is^no standard of comparison ; but if St. Paul's stood at its foot, or 
one of the great Pyramids, it would not, I take it, appear quite so easy 
of access as it does, and would prepare the aspirant for a more difficult 
enterprise than he perhaps had contemplated. 

The ascent of Monte Rosa commences directly from the glacier. "We 

A:ksent of Monte Rosa in 1862. j69 

elimbed up some smooth polished rocks on to the snow> And soon after- 
wards reached some other rocks, afiber which our entire ascent was up the 
jnow-fields. As on Mont JBlanc so on .Monte Rosa, there is a '^ grand 
pkteau ;" the latter, howevecy though a grand and comparatively level 
piece of snow, is quite insignificant as compared with the far-famed 
plateau of Mont Bknc, where I first found my respiration affected in 
taseending that mountain. 

Here I did jaot suffer at all, and only in a modified degree afterwards, 
just enough to be disagreeable, as on the Col du G^ant, but not to im- 
pede my |yrogress» as it did on Mont Blanc. The sensation, however, 
-was of a precisely similar character. 

One of my guides, Jean Kronig, of Zermatt, suffered awfully in the 
Jiead, and was- constantly calling out By way of cure (on our descent) 
be 4«pealedly placed large masses of snow or ice on the top of his felt 
'^ wide-awake," which, being soft and pliable, retained it in a cup. '* O 
;ma tete, ma t4te," he would exclaim in great suffering, as he occasionally 
dudted. This terrible kind of brow ague attacked all the guides on ray 
.Aseent of Mont Blanc, but, strange to say, I felt nothing of it on either 

From the grand plateau it is a continual ascent up the snow-slope. 
We weie all attached to the rope, and it was necessary to cut steps in 
•the ice occasionally, as it was hard frozen, and the footing insecure. 

During my ascent of Monte Rosa I repeatedly looked back upon the 
.M&tterhorn, and thought of Professor Tyndall's bold attempt. The clouds 
olung all round it, as I have said, about two-thirds of the way up, and I 
isared that he had lost all chance of success this year, as afterwards 
•proved to be the case. The Lyskamm and the whole of the connecting 
range were entirdy free from clouds, but as we ascended, all mountains 
beyond were obscured, except the sununit of Mont Blanc, which for ten 
minutes or more rose most majestically above the clouds, towering above 
•die Lydcamm, and apparently just over it, though some thirty miles off 
at least. 

I have often (thought, even at Chamounix, that one realises the 
stupendous height of Mont Blanc much more when its summit only is 
49een rising in its majestic grandeur above ibe clouds. 

The pn&dpal ^difficulty in the ascent of Monte Rosa is in the last 
Aortion of it — that part which is sometimes called the cone. It consists 
£rst of an exceedingly precipitous snow-slope, which can only be 
ascended by breasting it. To do this, it is of coarse necessary to cut 
4iteps in the iee all the way up. At the foot of this is a level spot of ice, 
«wbere the guides leave what little provision they may have brought thus 
ifar, and wheve we all took a iittle repast How different firom the ascent 
4if Mont Blanc, where we took nothing, and could not have eaten it if 
we had ! Even the rope and batons were here deposited* and we bad 
jDMtbing Imo^ cmr ice-axes, wluch were also left when the rocks were 
aeached, all of us being prepared for a stiff climb with hands and feet. Th^ 
last atep nut in the ice brought us on to the Ar^te. I found it to be like 
(walking on the ridge of a very steely [ntched church roof^ with a smooth 
precipice of ice slantjng off almost vertically on one side, many hun- 
cired feet below, while on the other was a sheer descent into a fearful 


70 Ascent of Monte Rosa in 1862. 

The space on which we walked was not, as I found it, more than the 
width of a good sized plank. 

Mr. Wills has most accurately described it in his work, '^ The Eagle's 
Nest, and Excursions among the great Glaciers.'* " In many places," 
he says, " at a couple of feet to our left, all was hard as ice and smooth 
as glass** (this is literally as I found it). '' To our right was a few inches 
width of snow, and then a rocky precipice. The precipice was sometimes 
absolutely perpendicular, and of course quite bare of snow, and for scores 
of feet marked by the sheer descent, sometimes merely so steep as to be 
the next thing to perpendicular. Nowhere, however, could we see more 
than a dozen feet down the wall of rock, and then the next object was 
the glacier, a good thousand feet beneath. We trudged slowly up the 
snow," he continues, ''for the ridge was very steep. I measured it in 
descending, and found the angle thirty-six degrees, and there was no 
room to zig-zag. At length the snow ended, and we took to a narrow 
ledge of rocks. The description usually given is literally true. It was 
in no place more than three feet wide, in many places not a third of that 
width. On the right is a precipice, on the left a bank of snow, so steep 
as to be just as bad." 

Safely passing the Ar^te, some protruding rocks are reached, round 
which we dodged, sometimes on one side of this frightful precipice, 
sometimes on the other, and so sharply cut out in parts, that a mere 
twist of the body brought you from one side to the other— in our case, 
from summer to winter, for the sun had been shining on the rocks, 
which were agreeably warm to the touch on one side, and icy cold on 
the other, so much so as instantaneously to benumb the fingers, After 
a little more climbing and holding grimly on to the rocks, we had the 
great gratification of reaching the Hochste Spitze of Monte Rosa, where 
I hoisted my colours — my blue veil — holding it extended in my hands 
in a strong breeze, having left my flagstaff (my bllton) below. 

I confess it was with no small delight that I found myself now stand- 
ing on the second highest mountain in Europe, at an elevation of 
15,284 feet above the level of the sea, being less than five hundred feet 
lower than Mont Blanc.* Having, on my return last year, been elected 
a member of the Alpine Club, in consequence of my ascent of Mont 
Blanc and other glaciers, the satisfaction was thereby increased. 

My friend, to whose successful ascent of Monte Rosa I have previously 
alluded, thus accurately describes in his private journal the last climbs 
which makes the accomplishment so difficult and trying : 

'< We left, on a small level part of the snow, the knapsacks and ie« 
maining bottles and provisions, and got into our rope harness. We had 
a g^d English rope, which we had brought with us, some seventy.five 
feet long. This was fastened securely round each of us, with a firm 
knot under the left arm. First went one guide with a hatchet, then my 
companion, then our chief guide with crampions on his feet, then myself, 
^nd the rear was brought up by our third and youngest guide. In diis 
order we climbed yet a little farther, and, turning to our left, were at 
once introduced to die real difficulties which make Monte Rosa so 

♦ TyndalL 

Ascent of Monte Bosa in 1862. 71 

striking a day's walk, and which, for a long period, made the highest 
peak to be deemed inaccessible. The route here rises so steeply that it 
18 necessary to cut steps in the ice, all the way, with the hatchet, and at 
the same time to keep on the verge of the tremendous precipice, which 
goes sheer down, some fifteen hundred feet, to a glacier below, in order 
to get the advantage of a little loose snow and level path, some foot or 
foot and a half broad ; whilst on the left is a steep slope of hard ice, so 
steep that, when once launched on its surface, there could be no stop, 
and die lower end of it lost in rocks or crevasses. In short, here com- 
menced a very remarkable walk, of nearly two hours, along an exceed- 
ingly narrow ridge, steeply inclined, of alternately rocks and intervals of 
snow : these latter often barely one foot wide, with, on one side, a drop 
of some thousand or fifteen hundred feet, sheer down on to lower glaciers, 
and on the other, though perhaps less awful, quite as dangerous an ice- 

*' I will not for one moment disguise the truth ; I was exceedingly 
struck with the prospect. In fact, I was decidedly startled at the route 
which thus lay before me. I had expected some trial to both head and 
nerves ; but the reality exceeded expectation, and my first impression was 
that the undertaking was far beyond me. 

'' I, however, braced myself up for the task, determined, if possible, not 
to add cowardice to rashness, and taking a deliberate look down the 
abysses, right and left;, so as thoroughly to take in all their features, and 
remove any subsequent longing to take a furtive glance when it were 
better not to do so, Igave my undivided attention to the path we had to 
follow. Slowly and cautiously we crept over or round the sharp ridges 
of rocks, or intervening spaces of snow. In many of the worst places, 
but one of the five moved at a time, so that the rope held by those who 
had a firm footing, and were stationary, g^ve considerable confidence to 
the one in action. Still much caution and steadiness is of course required 
in this portion of the route. It is extraordinary, however, how soon after 
the first necessary effort, steadiness of head, nerves, and muscles may be 
commanded. The snow intervals, with the fearful depth on each side, 
were to me by far the most trying ; but the rocks are more disliked by 
others. Going over a ridge is not so difficult ; but worming round some 
projecting comer with the whole body actually overhanging the precipice^ 
and feeling for a hold with hands and feet in the sharp, angular ine* 
qualities on the rock, turning a corner which cannot well be craned round 
for personal inspection, clinging all the time to the face of the cold damp 
stone, is thought by some to be the worst bits. I, however, always think 
it a great point to get a firm hold with the hands, and therefore much 
preferred die rocks to the ice. 

^ Such is the upper or finishing touch of the route of Monte Rosa,** 
lays my friend, from whose manuscript I have, with his kind permis- 
noR, been making extracts — his description being extremely accurate. 
^' Slowly and cautiously," he continues, '* we wound our way to what 
appeared to be the actual summit. That point attained, however, we 
found a considerable and precipitous descent in the rock, which we got 
down one by one ; then another and a final ice-ridge, inclining steeply 
upwards; and at last the actual peak, which is reached by an all but 

72 ji»e€nt ofMmim Rosa m 1862. 

iperpendicular climb up manj feet of rough weather-split rook, in a 
kind of natural cleft, where the lower man's hands follow close upon 
Jiis {Hredeeessor's feet: and a striking effect it was in perspective for 
.myself, looking up at my three singularly fore-shortened comrades, 
one above the other, right overhead. About two hours are required 
for the whole of this ndge, or Axete as it is called, of Monte Rota, 
•which time is quite out of proportion to the ascent in feet, or actual 
distance gone over; but it is impossible to go very quick, and the 
various ascents give, I believe, little variation in the time occupied in this 

"A sharp scramble up the final rocks, and we were at last on the 
< Aller Hochste Spitze' of Monte Rosa !" 

I have alluded to the gathering clouds which surrounded the Matter- 
liorn, and excluded from our view the intervening snowy peaks beyond 
the Monte Rosa range, the summit of Mont Blanc being alone visible £ar 
about ten minutes, as I have stated, and showing out beautifully. 

This will prepare my readers for the disappointment of seeing nothing 
but a thick seethmg caldron of clouds below us to the westward. The 
magnificent ;panorama described so well by Alfred Wills was lost to us, 
just as the no less grand panorama seen by me from the summit of Mcmt 
Blanc was lost to him on his ascent. 

However, we consoled ourselves with the uninterrupted view of the 
Monte Rosa range, which is very superb. After we had been about a 
quarter of an hour on the summit^ up came some of the doudi^ and 
assailed us roughly with a pelting shower of hail, or fine icy panicles, 
which stung the face sharply. 

As there was no prospect of any improvement in the weather, but a 
jeertainty of its becoming worse, and as it is no joke to be caught in bad 
weather on the summit of Monte Rosa, we unanimously agreed with 
f alstaff that, on some occasions at least, '^ discretion is the better part of 
valour;" so, after partaking of some strongly diluted cognac, and 
drinking the health of the fair lady who gave me my colours, we beat 
a retreat, not, however, without obtaining a trophy. We found inaboitle 
A card left by £ro£essor Tyndall on the occasion of his first asoen^ whieh 
1 brought awaji, and have had framed, as a certificate of my own asoeo^ 
as no register is kept at the Riffel or at Zermatt. It contains these few 

John Tyndall 

Christian Lauener. 

10th August, 1858. 

Sun and Cloud. Water boils 184 deg., 92 Fahr. 

I value it greatly. Of course I replaced it by my own, and afaiA b 
very much pleased if any one brings it back to me. I also brought a 
^ngment of rock from the very fumwii^ on which it has been truly nid 
AOt more than two persons can stand together. The first succeaifid 
ascent of Monte Rosa was made only seven years ago, while Mont film 
lias be^i assailed these eighty years. 

Por my own part, I found no difficulty whatever in retracing our 8fcep% 
vtdier through the rooks which crop out of the ice and anow, or by tks 
steps cut in the steep side which we had breasted on our ASQent, and 

Ascent o/MotUe Bosa m 1862. 73 

"which elicited from Jean Kronig the remark 'that I had marched across 
the Arete ^^ comme un soldat" — a greater compliment than which, as a 
. private of the d8th Artists, he could not of course have paid me ! 

Any one hy prpper and judicious training might, ;I imagine, be equally 
cool and collected, hut Jean Rronig asserted, and I do not douht the 
truth of his statement, that he had experienoed the gpreatest difficulty and 
•danger in ascending the cone with men nrho, losing all nenre, have 
.trembled from head to foot. No man ought to attempt it who is apt to 
turn giddy. It is more difficult, I think, than anything encountered in 
the ascent of Mont Blanc, but the latter is infinitely more trying, and 
requires an amount of endurance far beyond that of Monte Eosa. I 
would rather make six ascents of Monte Bosa than one of Mont Blanc, 
granting me the same circumstances attending my ascent 

The distnessing sensations were in so modified a form as scarcely to 
•deserve notice. On Mont Blanc they are terrible to most people. In 
bad weather on Monte Eosa they might perliaps be the same. The cold 
18 at times quite. as intense, and the liability to be frostbitten of course 
the same under such circumstances. Mr. Wills suffered much; so did 
jny friend. ^ After a quarter of an hour on the summit, I began," he^says, 
** to feel very cold, for a high wind was blowing up there, and the thermo- 
meter stood at only 24 deg., which is at any time a low temperature for 
sitting in edjresco" His beard and moustache had been long frozen, and 
very heavy -from pendant icicles, his teeth began to chatter, and altogether 
he was not sorry when they rearranged the-preparations for their descent. 
Happily for me the codd was not very great, and I found two pair 
jof sooks sufficient for .the feet, with extra under dlothing, viz. two pair 
vof flannel waistcoats and two pair of drawers, the guide carrying an 
^overcoat in case of need. My beard, too, was not frozen as on Mont 

My descent of Monte Rosa was not marked by any particular incident, 
iurtlber than tliat I twice lost my footing (which I prided myself on not 
having done even once on Mont Blanc). 

Thc'snow was hard and slippery, and we ^ere obliged to keep to the 
^teps we had eut in ascending. I think the mails in my shoes were worn 
flat. I fell, and was held by the rope, or should have slid down about a 
thousand yards. So slippery was the snow, .that I could get no hold to 
xaise myself, but that the guides assisted me. No sooner was I on my 
legs, than tafter going a few paces I was down again, «iid hung by the rope 
a second time, rendering it hopeless to proceed. I suggested whether 
we might venture upon a ghssade. The chief guide assented. We all 
seated ourselves one behind the other. Watching the steady course of 
my bllton descending induced me to believe that it was the best mode of 
progress. Away we all went, straight as an arrow, and soon found our- 
selves upon a more easy and gradual descent. We shortly came to soft 
snow, and afterwards to a more slushy substance. I here regained my 

The afternoon sun, notwithstanding the clouds which encircled the 
mountain, had produced its efiect. For two mortal hours or more we 
floundered through the snow knee-deep, and not unfrequently up to our 
thighs, while some of us would plunge in to the waist. On one occasion 

74 Ascent of Monte Rosa in 1862. 

I thought my friend Mark would vanish altogether, for he got well-nigh 
up to lus armpits. We were none of us roped together. What footing 
he had, I know not, but his ever merry countenance indicated no alarm 
on his part I need scarcely say this was killing kind of work, and that 
it greatly retarded our arrival at the Rifiel ; but we all took to it cheerily, 
and stuck to it right manfully. Nulla dies sine limine. 

Poor Jean Kibnig continued hb exclamations, " O ! ma tete ! ma 
t^te ;" but as we approached the rocks above the Gomer Grat Glacier, 
and sat down to an agreeable repast, and to a bottle of bon vin — viz. a 
bottle of St George — ELronig all at once got rid of his headache, and 
shook the ice from tlie top of his wide-awake. All our difficulties 
were fairly at an end. We recrossed the Glacier du Cromer Grat, and 
saw a lot of people on the Gomer watching our return. After an ab- 
sence of seventeen hours we arrived at the chMet on the Riffel at eight 
P.M. I did not feel much fatigued, and, after enjoying a quiet supper in 
my own apartment, retired to roost. 

The following day I took it easy, ascending only the Gomer Grat 
and scanning our route up Monte Rosa ; and in the afternoon descended 
to Zermatt with my young friends, the Oxonians, who had come up to 
the Riffel to look at Monte Rosa, and who were not a little surprised to 
find that I had left my card on the summit, for I had not informed them 
that I had even contemplated paying this visit The next day I walked 
from Zermatt to Viege (or Vispe), through the fine wild valley of 
Zermatt and St. Nicolai. It is a stiffish walk, but it was my last, as I 
proceeded by carriage to Siou, and by rail to Martig^y. 

And now farewell, gentle reader ! and if you ever visit the High Alp^ 
may you witness the glorious scenes which it has been my good fortune 
to do, and may you pass safely through them ; but let me urge yon to 
take every possible precaution in your power, and not to place too much 
reliance upon those who tell you that there is little or no risk. I have 
incurred enough to justify me in saying that there is great risk, and 
should you find it so, and <' come to grief," neither you nor your friends 
can blame me for underr&tiiig it, at all events. On the other hand, should 
you happily incur none, and think that I have overrated the danger, there 
will be no harm done to any one. 

Remember, too, to be prepared for the cold. Couttet tells me that 
two of the guides who were with him when Captain Forbes ascended 
Mont Blanc in 1858 were frostbitten, and both are since dead — but that 
the temperature on that occasion was higher than it was when he went 
up with me in 1861 — " the degree of cold being then more terrible than 
he had ever experienced." 

( 75 


Some men can make everythine^ they say agreeable, and everything 
they write interesting. Lord Stanhope is an instance. We do not pre- 
tend to speak of him in private intercourse. In public we have listened 
to him with pleasure. And as a writer he comes distinctly under our 
description. His '* Life of Cond^,'' while it satisfies the scholar, is read 
by all classes with the same interest as Southey's ** Life of Nelson ;" and 
we know that many have gone through his '* Life of Pitt" (though it is 
in four volumes, and extends to seventeen hundred and eighty pages) 
with as much avidity as if it had been a popular novel. 

Even his latest publication, small as it is in size, cannot be said 
to be 

Of slender volume^ and of small account. 

If it only consists of a hundred and twenty pages, there is not one of 
them that does not contain something curious in itself, or curiously illus- 
trative. It commences with some interesting letters of Pitt, which the 
possessors of his " Life" will regret had not formed part of its appendices. 
They may possibly appear in future editions. The first (which we con- 
sider as, perhaps, the best specimen of the great statesman's letter- 
writing that we possess) is to the Duke of Rutland upon the " Irish pro- 
positions" brought forward in 1785. Lord Stanhope had already shown 
us with what anxiety they were regarded both by Pitt and by the noble- 
man whom he addressed as a colleague and a friend. To himself their 
rejection was " a deep disappointment, a bitter mortification." It has 
been said by Lord Macaulay that he was " the first English minister who 
formed great designs for the benefit of Ireland." He had applied him- 
self for almost a twelvemonth to their details, and, instead of attaining 
his object, the jealousy of both nations was excited afresh, and his own 
popularity for a time declined. His attempt to give freedom to the trade 
with Ireland was much like the attempt to give political liberty to the 
Neapolitans. The Irish could not then appreciate it, and even for our 
own mercantile classes the statesman was immeasurably in advance of his 
age. After a second letter on the same subject, we have others on the 
"Irish appointments of 1794-5." They refer to the appointment of 
Lord Fitzwilliam as Lord-Lieutenant, and to his strange disregard of 
every arrangement that had been entered into upon his taking^ office. 
Few men were so unselfish on these occasions as Mr. Pitt himselt ** The 
task on our hands," he wrote to his colleague. Lord Westmoreland, '' is 
difficult enough for all our joint efforts ; and every sentiment of jealousy 
or resentment ought to be lost in a sense of its importance and urgency." 
If every man could thus think and feel, government would become an 
easy task. A republic would be as practicable, even for England, as a 
constitutional monarchy, and one half of our existing laws might be 
abolished. In the poet's single aphorism, that " we are selfish men," lie 

* Miscellanies: Collected and Edited by Earl Stanhope. Murray. 1863. 

76 Lord Stanhopes Miscellanies. 

all the difficulties in the way of purer aud more rational institutions than 
we are ever likely to possess. 

The next of the Miscellanies, in point of interest, are the letters which 
show the estimation in which Mr. Pitt was held- hy those with whom he 
came into contact in daily and constant intercourse. The foihles of a 
hero can as little be concealed from his valet, as the disposition of a states- 
man from his private secretary. Hiey must be adepts in dissimulation 
who can avoid the scrutiny of either. Mr. Pitt inspired- the men who- 
thus came near him wiiii a feelings of regard that lasted daring more than 
t^e usual period of human life. Mr. Adams, who died last year at 
Sydenham, at a very advanced' age, wrote to Lord Stanhope only two 
months previous : " In thinking of him, I am too apt to dwell less upon 
the loftier qualities of his mindj and upon the great objects to which they 
were successfully directed, than upon the milder virtues of his delightfiir 
disposition, and his unvarying kindness of heart; which so much endeared 
him to all those who knew him well, and inspired them with the warmest 
feelings of attachment." And He again writes : " He was surely a man 
whom it was quite impossible to know without loving him. During hiir 
last administrations-forsaken by old. friends, which he bitterly felt ; with< 
declining health, and almost the whole weight of the government upon, 
his own shoulders — so delightful was liia temper that, with all my shortr 
comings no harsh* word. or look evetr escaped him, but. all. towards me waa^ 
kindness and indulgence." 

There was nothing in which die nobler quaUties of his disposition were 
more strikingly shown than- in. his anxiety to obtain an adequate provir 
sion for the declining years of Btirke. The great' onU^or had often been, 
his opponent; sometimes, as in the debates on the King's first illness, he. 
had opposed him bitterly; but Mr..Pitt*s only feeling towards his rival 
was to secure him the reward which his public services for thirty years; 
deserved. In the present volume we have a copy of the ** Memorandum." 
in which he himself set them forth. He urges his claim upon the grounds 
of labours in parliament uniecompensed by admission to power ; upon: 
the difference in this respect between his own position. and that of Barz^, 
or of Dunning^ or of Lord Auckland ; and upon the losses necessarily 
attendant upon that. '* neglect of a man's private affaire^'* which is tfav 
inevitable consequence of an engrossing devotion to public life. The. 
pension granted to him was' sufficient £or all the wants that he had then* 
to satisfy. His letters acknowledging it have a melancholy iutere8t» 
He had once had higher views* He was tao have been raised to tha 
peerage, with an adequate provision to sustain his rank. "Already" 
(Lord Stanhope tells us"*) *' was the title chosen as Lord BeaconsfieUL 
AJready was the patent preparing. Just then it pleased Almighty Godi 
to strike the old man to the very earth by the untimely death of hiS: 
beloved son, his only child. There ended Burke^s whole share of earthly 
happiness. There ended all his dreams of earthly grandeur." His 
proudest hopes '^ lay buried in the grave." 

Two pages of the volume are next occupied with, the origin and 
etymology of the " Martello Towers," a mode of defence considered, at 

♦ Life of Pitt, vol. ii. p. 244. 

Ij9rd Stanhopes Miscellanies. 77 

one time, as second only to our navj. We are indebted to Sir George 
Lewis for the explanation. When piracy (he writes to Lord Stanhope) 
was common in the Mediterranean, the Italians built watch-towers near 
the sea, and gave warning of the approach of a pirate bj striking on a 
bell with a hammer (Martello). '^ Hence these, towers were called 2brri 
da MuTteUo ;'* and his lordship finds this explanation confirmed by pas-> 
sages in Ariosto ; of which we may quote the following : 

E la campana marteUando tocca 
Onde 11 soccorso vien subito al porto. 

{Orlando, canto x. stanza 51.) 

Sir John Harrington does not seem to have understood the passage in its 
peculiar significance, when he translated it 

For straight a watchman standing in a tower. 
So hi^h that all the hil? and shore was under, 
Did nng the larum-bell that present houre 
He saw her fleet though distant farre asunder. 

(Ed. 1607, p. 76.) 

Listead of ring it should have been '< hammering strike the bell." We 
have not Stewart iE^se's translation by us. 

Following this is a letter from Sir John Moore to Lady Hester Stan- 
hope, dated November 2S, 1808 ; about six weeks before the battle of 
Corunna. It is in every way of value; and its closing sentence is 
touchingly connected with his fate. 

*' Farewell," he writes, " my dear Lady Hester : if I extricate myself 
and those with me from our present difficulties, and if I can beat the 
French, I shall return to you with satisfaction ; but if not, it will be 
better that I should never quit Spain." We well remember seeing part 
of the wreck of his army arrive in England. How changed from the 
'^ good spirits" and ^^ appearance" which he describes in his letter ! and 
yet some of them were still as gay as if only returning from a review. 

Amongst the most important of the correspondence preserved by Lord 
Stanhope are several letters by the lute Sir Robert Peel. One of them, 
addressed to Lord Harrowby, immediately previous to die passing of the* 
Reform Act^ expresses an opinion that it would be better to compel the^ 
government to resort to the coup d'eiat of a fresh creation of peers ra^M* 
than that the House of Lords should yield, against its conviction, on the 
second reading of the bill. This was in his days of high conservatism; 
'^ The nature of popular concessions, their tendency to propagate the 
necessity for further and more extensive compliances ;" the loss of ^ ail 
reverence and care for remaining institutions ;" and an '' appetite whetted 
for a further feast at the expense of the Church or the Monarchy," were 
dangers that he afterwards regarded with less of fear^ His masterly 
defence (at the request of Lord Stanhope) of the character of Sir Robert 
Walpole is a valuable paper, and written with a clearness and impartiality 
that show no ordinary talent for historical composition. 

We have next some still more valuable communications from the Duke 
of Wellington. First a comparison between his own position — its ad- 
vantages and difficulties — and that of the Duke of Marlborough, whom 
he considers as '^ the greatest man that ever appeared at the head of a 

78 Lord Stanhope's Miscellanies. 

British army." He, at the same time, sends to Lord Stanhope a letter 
preserved in the French Depot general de la Ouerre, which shows that, 
in 1674, the young Churchill had applied for a commission as colonel of 
infantry in the army of Louis XIV. ; and, in a memorandum on the 
Moscow Retreat, he gives an opinion '' that the loss of the French army 
under Napoleon would have heen accelerated, more disastrous and dis- 
graceful, if the season had been wet instead of having been frosty." ^' In 
truth," he adds, '^ the army could not in that case have moved at all in 
the state to which all its animals were reduced at the time." 

From these we turn to lighter subjects: to inquiries not altogether 
useless, as to the origin of the red uniforms of our soldiers, and the blue 
and buff of the "Whigs. Lord Stanhope (then Lord Mahon) writes to 
Macaulay, " ' Pray when was the British army for the first time clothed 
in red ?' was the inquiry addressed to me yesterday by no less a person 
than the Duke of Wellington." Lord Mahon thought in the time 
of Charles the Second. The Duke thought it was earlier; ** that Monk's 
troops, for 9:(amp]e, were Sedooats,** Macaulay says the Duke was right. 
The army of the Commonwealth wore red : and he quotes Hudibras in 

The uniform of the Whigs is not so easily accounted for. It was sup- 
posed, by some, to have been copied from the army of Washing^ton ; but 
Mr. Jared Sparks says that, on the contrary, the Revolutionists, as was 
much more pro|:>able, borrowed it from the Whigs. Othera have traced it 
to a mixture of the Tory blue vrith the orange of William III. ; and Lord 
Sidney Osborne thinks that the political followers of the Duke of 
Richmond adopted it &om the uniform of the Goodwood Hunt, and that 
it thus became the distinguishing dress of his nephew, Charles Fox. Like 
many party distinctions, however, its origin cannot be very diaUnotly 

Out of consideration for the intellectual character of &llen royalty, we 
leave tlie verses by the Pretender unnoticed. 

There is a short and very characteristic letter from Lord Macaulay, 
written on his return from his last tour in Italy ; and the volume finishes 
with a discussion and correspondence between Sir Robert Peel, Macaulay, 
Lord Mahon, and Hallam, as to the question, *' Were human sacrifices in 
use among the Romans ?" Sir Robert Peel (with a knowledge of au- 
thorities that seems marvellous) rather leans to the affirmative ; and the 
amount of learning that is brought to bear upon the controversy could 
have been retained by no ordinary men in the midst of very different, and 
often harassing, pursuits. 

We might have dwelt longer upon Lord Stanhope's volume; but the 
subjects we have already indicated will sufficiently show that it must be 
estimated by a higher standard of value than the number of its pages. 

( 79 ) 



Part the Twenty-Eighth. 



When De Yigne went back to the hotel, he found a letter from his 
steward, asking him to go down to Vigne, where business matters required 
his absolute and personal attention. He read the letter, put it down, and 
thought a minute over its contents. Yigne was hatefbl to him : he had 
neyer been there since he had quitted it on that fatal New Year's Day which 
had bound him to Constance Trefusis. Every association connected with 
it was one of keen and stinging pain, interwoven as they were with the one 
great irremediable mistake and misery of his life. One place, indeed, was 
dear and sacred to him— that one green grave under the shadowy elms, 
where his mother lay ; but even there lingered and haunted bitter regret 
and viun remorse, since it was his folly, his headstrong and wilful pas- 
sion, which had sent her there— the mother whom he had loved so 
tenderly from the early hours when, as a young boy, he had loved to 
lean against her knee, sitting under the very shadow of those elms that 
now sheltered her grave under their fostering foliage. Yigne was full of 
dark and bitter memories to him : he had not visited it now for eleven long 
years, exiled from his ancestral home by the gaunt spectre of the folly 
which there had first clung around his life, to bear him such after-fruits 
of misery. Yet now, whether Alma's love had made life bear a different 
colouring, he felt a vague wish and longing to see the old home where 
hb careless childhood and his happy youth had passed ; the home where 
so many of his forefathers had lived ; the home — nearest and holiest tie 
of all — the home where his mother had died. Alma would not be in 
England, whither she was coming with the Molyneux, for two days; 
if he should go and dwell with her in Italy or Southern France, 
he wished to see ihe old elm woods of Vigne before he left the 
country ; he wished to see his mother's grave — ^his mother, the only 
woman that had ever loved him purely, devotedly, unselfishly, till 
Aima, poor child! spent all her wealth of love on him. Something 
impelled him to go down to Yigne as strongly as he had before 
loathed even the mention of revisiting it. That day he threw himself 
into the triun, and went down to spend twenty-four hours under that 
roof where he had once slept the sweet, untroubled, dreamless sleep of 
childhood ere he knew the bitter sorrow and the delirious joys of man- 
hood. They did not know he was coming, and there was no welcome 
for him (so best, he could ill have borne it, remembering how he had 
'quitted it) ; there was only the flag flying from the west turret because 
he was returned in safety from the Crimea, and the old lodge- keeper's 
recognition of him as she looked into his face and burst into tears, for 


80 Gramnlhde Vigne^ 

she had worshipped him from his birth (though De Vigne, in his way- 
ward, mbchievous, high-spirited, care-for-nothing childhood, must have 
been a very troublesome divinity), and had never thought to see him 
again before she laid her aged bones to rest* The old familiar things 
came with a strange thrill of memory upon him. Every turn of the ap- 
proach — ^the shadowy double aveaue,. with its giant elms swaying their 
massive boughs backwards and forwards in the sunlight; the g^eat sweep 
of park and woodland^ forest and pasture^ stretching away farther than 
the eye could reach ; the clear, sweet ripple of the river, rushing under 
the hawthorns, white as new-fallen snow ; the scamper of the startled 
hares under the fan-like ferns ; the distant belling of the rare red deer, 
trooping under the arching trees, in the blue distance ; the grand front 
oft that magnificent pile that his ancestors had left him .in heritage, with 
its stately terraces and tarrete, its stretching lawns and gardenEr — a liorae 
too fair to be deserted by its lord and left to silence and to solitocb--^ 
home that should have had revelry in its halls and sweet. laughter rii^iig 
to its stately roof, and love and joy filling its forsaken ohamben with 
their sofib silvery chimes — all came bade upon him with a very angui^ 
of memory, such a tightening of the heart, as we feel looking on the 
fibce of a& old friend long parted, and tmcing the difference in him and 
US' since the- joy 0^9 days of old gone by for ever. He loved the pUee, lor 
its own sake ; he had been proud of it, for its grand beauty and its hii« 
toric aroma, when he was yet a child, pls^ng light-hearted, free, and 
careless under the shade of its stately i^^oods. He had loved it until it 
was cursed with the abadow of his unhaprpy marriage; till the dark 
memory of the woman who had taken his name haunted and poisoned 
the air, and filled every well^^femembered scene of his home with the re- 
leittless ghost, ever parsuing, never eluded, following in the full glare 
of a noontide sun, as in the voiceless silence of the midnight hours ; the 
spirit of an error in judgment, repented of, but irremediabiie: no sin, bat 
what costs us dearer as the world goes — a folly. 

That ghost pursued him at each step tln'ough all the old &miliar 
seenes. He could net enter the great hall where lie had seen her t^ first 
nifi^ht she came to Vigne, standing under the gas glare in: her daasiing^ 
voluptuous, but ever coarse beauty, with her scarlet wreath over her mven 
hair, and her scarlet cloak flung half off from that divine form that had 
won and tempted his eye-love ; he could not mount the wide staircase 
where he had seen her on his marriage-day, her eyes flashing in triumph 
under her bridal veil, that diamond ceinture round her waist that was now 
turned into gold at the Mont de Pi^t^ ; he could not enter his home, so 
fidr, so stately, with its wide windows opening on to the sloping lawns and 
sunny woods beyond, that were all, far as the eye could reach, his; the 
ghost of the Past — the Past which his own madness had made, and. no 
power of his could now unmake — haunted and pursued him too Intteriy! 
Still less could he have entered his mother's room, undisturbed by his order 
from the day she died; the chamber sacred to the memory of one who 
had loved him with so rare, so self-denying, so infinitely patient, unweafj^ 
ing, and tender a devotion ; the mother whom the fruit of his own head- 
long madness had slain from the very depth and strength of her love for 
her wayward and idolised son. 

How fair Vigne looked that day, with the sunlight^ of the buddiog 

Granville de Vy/ne, 81 

simmer on its white terraces and green woodlands, all around silent and 
hfoshed, saire the mumiur of the leares and the soft rush of the rirer, and 
the distant belling of the deer that came on the warm, husked aur ! It 
was & strangely sad and silent returo-^a return for t wen ty-fimr hours! 
-—to his noble anoestral home after an absence ol nine jeaxis. It was 
not "SO that: the lords of Vignein bygone time came back to< thetr stately 
manor after fighting a good fight at Acre or Antio^ Worcester or Edge* 
lull, Bleohetm or Ramilltes. Alone he turned slowly from the house and 
walked across i^ park, leaving the grand* old pile behind him standing 
on its knoll of velvet turf, with its famous elms elosing around it, aod 
waving ihekt green tree- tops up to the blue clear heavens above--^ home 
worthy ^'a<ro3ral line, forsaken hy its master, and left to hirelings aotd 
servants in aU itS'&or and stately beauty-— with its legsends of honour, and 
its memories of glory and of greatness. He left the house and walked aeross 
the park alone, save an old staghound, well-nigh blind, who had leaped 
upon him at the first sound of his step, and who now followed him with 
nueasured tread aerotsa the soft-yielding grass, and nnder the chequered 
diade that 1^ g^reat forest-trees of Vigne flung across his path. He 
walked aeross the stretching sunEt park, where he had passed so many 
happy boms as a boy, riding, shooting, fishing, lying undser the elm- 
bo^ha ift the dreamy beauty of such another summer day 86. this, think- 
ing to himself <«diat a briilltant, glorious, shadowless thing he^ De Vigne 
of Vigne^ would make of life when he should grow to man's estate. He 
walked aleag, strange oommin^ng' theoghts ru&hing through his braitt. 
of his mother, of Constance Trefusis, of Alma TressiUian, dp his life, so 
full as it had becn^ of adventure and excitement, revelry and «port, daring* 
and pleaMoe — his life so brilliant before that one fatal mistake which 
marred aad darkened it, which now but for that one error would have 
been seelou^as, crowned as it was with the strong, deep love of man<^ 
hoody and the passionate devotion, the unswerving fidelity of such a heart 
as few men win to beat response to UMirs. There rose before him the 
two women who had had so much influence upon his life ; the one coarse, 
insolent, lost to shame^ to mercy, and to dec^iey, who had tempted with 
fifty devils' fbree in the dark gloom of the Royal Forest, goading him 
with insolt, twitting him with brutal jeer, and luring him to murder; the 
other delicate, refined, loving, impassioned, with not a thought he might' 
not read in her dear eyes, not a throb of her young heart that did not 
beat for lorn, leading, him with her soft voice, and her noble trust, and 
her unselfish love to a higher, hhet, purer life, teadiing him faith in 
hanan nature. They rose before him as he walked along, cutting the 
ferns and grasses as he passed, thought, and memory, and passion all at 
work, his nature as fiery, restless, wayward, impassioned, as when, years 
faefisce, under the elms of Vigne, he had wooed the milliner of Freston- 
hills, the scrub and protegee of old Fantyre. He walked on under the 
great trees that had watched over his race for centuries, bitter thoughts 
rising in him at every step, and stung to keener pain rather than 
softened at the knowledge of the warm, loving heart that waa so wholly 
hiSy and would be his, let him try it how he might, or ask what sacrifice 
he would; walked on until he came to the low ivy-clad fence which parted 
the churdiyard ftom the park of Vigne, and there, under the great waving 
elfla<^feesy - tossing thtfb bowa in. the summer air, with the lilies aad the 

G 2 

82 GranviUe de Vigne. 

purple violets clustering round its pure white stone, he saw his mother's 
gprave, the simple headstone bearing her name, lying in the soft summer 
sunshine, with the birds singing sweet low requiems around, and the 
church belis swinging slowly through the air, and the great elm -boughs 
sighing a Miserere for her whose life had been pure as the lilies, and 
sweet and humble as the violets that clustered round her tomb. And 
here even the living were forgotten in the memory of the dead, and De 
Vigne threw himself down beside the grave, calling on her name, as 
though his voice must waken the woman who had loved his slightest 
whisper, and never been deaf to any prayer of his. All the love he had 
borne his mother, all the love she had borne him, rushed upon his mind 
with an anguish of reg^t ; if he had listened to her counsel, ever gentle, 
never ill timed or unwise, she might have been now living, and the curse 
of his marriage would not have been on his life, nor its stain upon his 

If — ah, if! How much of our life hinges upon if!. She had been very 
dear to him. The sound of her voice, the tenderness of her smile^-the 
voice that had never spoken harshly to him, that smile that had ■ never 
failed to welcome him ; her gentle nature that his wayward will. ao often 
had tried ; her unwearying affection, which would. so fain have guarded 
him from every adverse fate ; all that had made his mother beloved ^d 
reverent and precious to him ; all that had made her words have weight 
with him in his high-spirited, dauntless, self-willed boyhood, when he 
would Ibten to no other; all that had made her death a remorse and 
a regret that a lifetim/O would not efSetce — came back upon him in a 
flood of memories, as he saw the summer sunlight glistening on her 
grave, and felt the bitterness, the sharpness, the keen, lasting^ cruel 
sorrow of that mystery of Death which wrenches a human life so 
strangely from those who would so fain hold it back from that dark and 
ruthless tomb, where no regret, however bitter, can follow to atone for 
wrong, and no voice, however loved, can hope to waken >a response. , 

The sunslune streamed around him, playing fitfully on the marble as it 
fell on it through the parted foliage of the overhanging elms. The 
violets and: the lilies of the valley filled the air with their fragrance?; the 
chimes tolled out slowly from the old church tower; all was silent around 
him, save the carols of the birds and the myriad nameless hushed murmurs 
and whispers that stir the solitude of a summer's day, with the low and 
sc^emn voices of the earth. In the stillness-r-where no human eyes 
looked on him-^he lay there on the green sods, with the bitterness of a 
yearning and futile remorse heavy upon him, as he remembered the words 
of her prophecy, ^' You will love again, to find the crowning sorrow of 
your life^ or drag another in to share your curse !" 

And like the out of a lancet on fresh-opened wounds fell words spoken 
beside him : i . 

"You are thinking. Major, of what a mistake you made eleven years 
ago, and what a fortune you would give to be able to undo it !" . , 

Sudi an intruder in such a place — coarse insult by bis mother's grave — 
he, who held his dearest friends at. a distance from his deeper feelings, to 
be broken in upon thus rudely by such an intruder! . He started up, and 
swung round to meet his ex-valet, Raymond. A deep flush of anger rose 
over his face ; the man quailed before the fire that flashed from his eyes, 

Granville de Vigne. 83 

and the chill and bitter fury with which his features seemed to change 
into the set coldness of stone, as he motioned him away, too low and too 
contemptible a foe to honour by laying his hand upon him. 

** Begone, oryouir insolence Will fcost you dear^ • How dare you, you 
hound, come bef&re me again.** 

*< Hound! Humph! Wasn't it true what I said, Major?'* asked 
Raymond, with a smite; " W6uldn'tyou give a good deal to anybody 
who made a free man of you again ?" • 

Without stopping ftnr a mitiute to consider what might be the import 
of his W6rds, stung* past endurance by the impudent* leer with which the 
man dared to address him, De Vigne, ever quick to make his muscle do 
battle for him, and apt to revenge ihsults as his ancestors had used to do 
in ages less polite and — perhaps-^ede^ cowardly, seized Raymond by his 
eokt*ieiiMar — ^the man's presence yttte sacrilege beside< his mother's grave 
— lifted him up, and flung him across the fence on to the grass and ferns 
and wild thy hfie of the di^rchyard beyond. "-^ 

** Leairti how I bear insulf from -curs like you !' A motvth at; the tread- 
mill wiH do *y6u ^bod.** 

*'Bien oblig^, mCinsieur,** muttered Raymond, as he gathered himself 
slowly up -from his turfy bed. ** Your gtasp is no child's play, Major ! 
But listisn one thoment, sir; do listen. • I mean you nO' insult, by Heaven 
I don*t ! I aik, because I can tell ybu what may be of great importance. 
If I could make your wife no^ your Wife^ wouki you listen to me then, 
sir*?** ■ - ■ ■•' 

Like lightning the blood leapt through his veins at the words <' your 
"Wife hot your wife.*' The simple thouglit put suddenly before him 
blt>tlgbt with it too stronga rush 6f possible joy, too delicious a vision of 
what might bCy for Mm to hear it calmly or retain his self-possession axsd 

" Not my wife!** he muttered, his vmce hoaree and stifled in its agony 
of suspense.' "Oood Qtod ! Have you warratit for what you say ?*' 

" F\i11 "#arrant. Major. I can do for you what no divorce laws can, 
thanks to the timorous fools that frame them. If those gentlemen were 
all fettered themselves, they'd make the gate go a little easier to open. 
I eah set you free, but how I won't tell you till we come a little to 

Free ! Not to Bonnevard, pining inthe darkness and wretchedness of 
Chilian, did freedom, even in its simple suggestion, bring such a flood of 
delirious joy as it brought to him. Free! Great Heaven! the very 
thought maddened him with eager, impatient, breathless thirst for cer- 
iainig, mingled with the cold, chill, horrible doubt that the man was 
cheating, misleading, and deceiving him. He sprang over the fence to 
his side, and seized him in a grasp that he would have vainly striven 
to shake off. 

" Great Heaven! If you have truth in what you say, tell me all — all 
-—at once ; do you hear? — all !" 

^Gently, gently. Major," said Raymond, wincing under the grasp 
that held him as flrmly as an iron vice, '*or I shall have no breath to tell 
you an3rthing. I can set you free, sir ; and I don*t wonder you wish to 
be rid of her ! But before I tell you how, you must tell me if you will 
give me the proper price for information.** 

84 Granville de Vigne, 

De Vigne shook him Uke a little dog. 

" Scoundrel ! Do you think I will make a compact with such as you ? 
Out with all you know, and I will reward you for it afterwards ; out 
with it, or if it be a hoax it will be the worse ftw you !*' 

" But, Major," persisted the man, halting for breath, " if I tett you all 
first, what gage have I that you will not act on my information, and 
neTer give me a farthing?" 

** My word !" gasped De Vigne, hurling the answer down his throat. 
** Do you think me such another scoundrel as yourself? Speak ; do you 
hear ? Is she not; my wife ?** 

" No, Major ; because she was mine first !" 

« Yoursf Then " 

** Your marriage is null and void, sir." 

De Vigne staggered against tiie fence, dizzy and blind with the deltrium 
of his sudden liberty, the unloosing of those cruel fetters festened oti htm 
by Church and Law, which had clung to him, festering to his Tcry bone, 
and bowing him down with their unbearable weight Free ! fmm the 
curse that had so long pursued him ; free from that hateful tie that had 
80 long made life loathsonM to him ; free from l^at she devil who so 
long had made him shun all of her sex, as men shun poisons they have 
once imbibed to the ruin of health and strength ! Free, his name oaoe 
BCK)re his own, purified from the taint of her claim upon it; free ! — his 
home once more his own, purged from the dadc and haunting memoms 
of an irremediable past ; free from the bitterness of his own folly, so long 
lepented of in agony and solitude; free to cast from him by law, as he had 
long done from neart and mind, the woman whom he loathed and 'hated; 
free to recompeikse with honour in the sight of men the strong' aikd'Ml^- 
lial love which would have given up all for his sake, and folh»wed'hiin 
withersoever he should choose to lead, content if she were by his side'^ 
go with him to any fate. 

Dizzy and blind and breathless with the strength of the n^w^boro 
hope, he staggered against the grey and ivy-tangled wall of the ehtffch, 
and forgetful of Raymond's presence, seeing, hearing, heeding* nothing, 
save that one word— free ! the blood flowing with fever-hesct through 
all his veins, every nerve in his body throbbnig and thriHing with 'the 
electric shock. 

He covered his eyes with his hand, like a man dazzled with the sttdden 
radiance of « noontide sun. Then he grasped Raymond's arm again. 

« Will you swear that ?" 

" Yes, sir, on the Bible, and before al^ the courts and judges xtk ibe 
land, if you like," 

De Vigne gave one quick, deep sigh, flinging off from him for ever-the 
iron burden of many years. 

" Tell me all, then, quick, from beginning to end, and give «ie all 
your proofs." 

He spoke with all the eager, wayward, restless impatience of his boy- 
hood ; the old light gleamed in his eyes, the old music rang in his -voice. 
The chains were struck off; he was free ! 

** Very well, sir. I must go back a good many years, and make a long 
story of it. Nineteen years ago — 'tisn't pleasant to look back so long, wr 
—Lucy Davis, the handsome milliner of FrestonhtUs, was a very da^ 

Granville de Viffue. 86 

ing-Iooking girl^~*BS yoa thought, Major, at that tinoe — and J was twtaty* 
two, always weak where women were oencerned, and much more eanly 
taken in than I was when I had seen a little more of human nature. 
My name was Trefusis, sir, not Raymond at all. I took an alias when I 
entered your service. My father was a Newmarket leg, andi he made a 
good pot of money one way and another; and he had more gentle* 
mcQ in his power, and more of your peerage swells, sb, under his 
dirty old thumb, knowing all that he knew, and having done for 
'em all that he had done, than you'd believe if I was to swear it 
to you. He wanted to make a gentleman of me. ' Charlie^ my boy,* 
he used to say, ' with brains And tin you may be as good as them 
swells any day ; they hain't no sort of business to look down on you* 
I've done dirty work euough to serve them, I reckon.' He wanted 
to make a gentleman of me, and he gave me a capital education, and 
more money and fine clothes than any boy in the school. But what's 
bred in the boiie, sir, will come out in tne flesh. He went to glory when 
I was. about ei^teeu, sir, leaving me all his tin to do just whatever I 
iiked with, and not a soul to say me nay. I soon spent it, sir; every 
stiver was gone in no time. I bought horses, and jewellery, and wine. 
I betted, I played ; in short, I made ducks and drakes with it in a very 
few years with a lot of idle young dogs like myself; for though the 
noney would have bought me a very good' business, or kept me straight 
if I'd lived closely and quietly, it wasn't enough to dash with as if I'd 
had a fortune at my fingers' ends^ like yours, sir. But .1 was a wedc 
yooag fool in those days, specially weak about women; a handsome 
woman migjit turn me round her finger just however she chose, and I'd 
DO -streugth whatever against. her. High and low, Major, men are all 
alike for the beaux yeux. Jimmy Jarvis — ^you will have heard of him, 
sir? — Jimmy was going to have a mill with the Brownlow Boy, at 
Greystone Grreen (perhaps you remember that's only two miles otit of 
Fvestonhills), and I went down with two or three others to see ^ 
fight. While I waa in Frestonhills, sir, 1 saw Lucy Davis in the mil- 
liner's sliop in High-street, and I fell straight in love with her for 
ber great black eyes and her bright carnation colour. I 'thought 
I'd sever seen anything half so handsome in all my ■ days ; and she 
was amagnificent girl at that time, sir — magnificent without a doubt. 
If she'd been a. duchess's daughter people would have made a fine row 
about her. I went to church to see her the i next day» and bowed to her 
coming out; and so we got acquainted, .sir, and I. fell more and more in 
loire, and I.wouldni't have stirred from FrestonhiUs just then to have made 
my fortune. That was a year after you had left, air. But I knew 
BObhing about ^our afii&ir, sir, then — trust her I" 

(Oh ! for the wooda of Vigne to hear a .valet talk as rival to their 
lord. Yet in the olden times, in their hot youth and .their inflammaiUe 
passions, I dare say those haughty gentlemen had whisptt^ love- vows 
to their > mother's feur-faeed haa^maiden, and. looked into the soft brown 
•yes of Sybil, the forests-ranger's < daughter, under the.oool shadows of 
those very dms, Icmg midsummefs before; for a youog man's i taste is 
easily pleased, and, in youth, we. ask no more than the bloom onihelip 
and: the. tint on: the. cheek.) 

^^ with hes; I made mysdf out agentlemaji; I talked 

86 Granville de Vigne. 

grand of marble halls and gorgeous doings, like Claude Melootte; I 
bought her presents fit for a countess ; I set all my wits to work to win 
her, and she was a very hard-mouthed, touchy young filly at that time^ 
sir, with a very careful eye to her owu interests, and very sure not to do 
anything till she thought it was for her own advantage* At seventeen^ 
sir, Lucy was a shrewd, calculating, hard*hearted woman of the world, 
an intrigante to do young fellows by the dozen. Half the . women 
that go to the bad, sir, do it because bad is their bias— ^because they like 
vice better than virtue, find it more lucrative, and it pleases their vanity 
Qr their avarice. Love has very little to do with it, air; there are bad 
women as well as bad men, I take it, though the papers and the preadiers 
do term them all innocent angels ! Well ! I was in love with Lucy, and 
she thought me a man of fashion and of fortune, and married me ; the 
register is in the church of Frestonhills; you can see it, sir, any day you 
like. In six months I thought myself a very great fool for having fettered 
myself-^—most people think so, sir, some time or other, poor folks even 
more than rich. Lucy's temper was that of a devil— ral ways had been— » 
and when she found out that all my riches would very soon .make them* 
selves wings and flee away, you may suppose it was not softened very 
much. She helped me to spend my money, sir, for twelve months, lead* 
ing me about as wretched a life as any woman could lead a man. We 
lived chiefly abroad, sir, in Paris, and at the German Baths; then the 
tin was all gone, and Lucy grew a very virago, and, as she had taken me 
only out of ambition, it was a hard cut to her, I dare say, to find me. a 
mere nobody, with nothing at all to speak of in the way of money, nHich 
l^ss of rank. She led me a shocking life, sir. We parted. by. mutual 
consent; we could not get on at all, and we hated each, other cor^ 
dially. I left her at Wiesbaden, and went ray own waye^i she had 
spent every shilling I had. Some time after I was fool enough to 
fpige a cheque.; it was found out, and they shipped me off to the 
colonies, and Lucy was free of me. Some years after,..! learnt what she 
did with herself ; at Wiesbaden old Lady Fantyre was staying, rouging^ 
gambling, and living by her wits, as you know she always has done, sir, 
ever since anybody can remember her. She saw Lucy at the Kursaa}^ 
and Lucy had improved wonderfully in twelve months : she, could get up 
a< smattering of things very fast; she could dress well on little or no* 
thing; she had quick wits» and a haughty, defiant, knook-me-4own 
manner that concealed all her ignorance, and earned everything before 
her. Old Fantyre took a fancy to her; she wanted to have «;C^mo 
panipn, somebody to inake her up well for the evenings, and read her 
dirty novels to h^r, and humour her caprices, and amuse the young 
fellows at her little card-parties while she fleeced them at ecart^ or vingt- 
et-un. Lucy seemed just fit for her place. She didn't know she was 
married ; Lucy made herself out an innocent, unprotected gpirl, whom,, 
you, sir, h^. deserted in an abominable way, and old Fantyre took W 
into her service. She thought Lucy's handsome black eyes would draw 
{ilenty of greenhorns to her Clipper- table and her cards, and you know^ 
sir, the cards have always been the old lady's bankers, and veiy good 
ones, too, or I mistake. Now, Lucy was an. uqcomroonly clever girl, 
hard-hearted and sharp-sighted; she numoured the old woman, she n^ade 
herself necessary to her, she chimed in with all her sayings, she listeiied 

Granville de Vigne, 87 

to all her stories, she got into her good graces, and made her do pretty 
well what she chose. You remember, sir, perhaps, that when you and 
Lucy parted at Frestonhills she told you she'd be revenged on yoti. 
She isn't a woman Xo forget : if a eat scratched her, and she met that cat 
again ten years afterwards, she'd recognise it, and punish it. She'd kept 
you steadily in her mind, and meant to pay you ofF for it one fine day, 
whenever occasion served. She'd set her heart on punishing you the 
bitterest way she could, and thought, and planned, and schemed till 
she'd got it all complete. She told Lady Fantyre about you, and she 
induced her to think that if she could catch you and marry yon, what a 
capital thing it would be for both of them, and how royally they could 
help you to spend your fortune. 

*' I must tell you, Lucy had heard that the government ship that had 
taken me out to Botany Bay had foundered, and she didn't know that I 
and a few others had managed to drift in the jolly-boat till an American 
cruiser picked us up. She thought I was drowned, or else she would have 
been a vast lot too wide awake to go in for bigamy. Old Fantyre 
listened^ agreed, and took her to England, and introduced her as h^r 
niece. There, as you know, sir, you met her, and fell into her toils 
again. I don't wonder you did not know her ; I never should. Years an'd 
society and dress, and the education she'd given herself, made such a dif- 
ference. And how should you think of Lady Fantyre's niece being the 
same with the milliner girl of Frestonhills High^street? And she was far 
handsomer then than she had been at sixteen. She catight you, sir — yoU 
know how better than I; and at the church her devilish nature came 
out, and she took the worst revenge she could on you, by proclaiming 
who she was before all your friends. She knew if you'd only found it 
out afterwards, you'd h&ve hidden it in your own heart ; the world wotild 
hAve been none the wiser, and she'd have been cheated of half her re- 
venge. Four years after you had married her, I came to Europe. I'd 
been staying in the Unitea States, till I thought all fear of my being re- 
oogniaed for that bygone little affair had blown over; and I went as valet 
to the Due de Vermuth. I often wondered what had become of my wife; 
tUl one Sunday, when I went to the Fr^ Catalan, I saw a lady in a carriage, 
talking and laughing with a number of youhg fellows tound her. She 
was 1^ remarkably fine-looking woman, and something^ in her face struck 
me as like my wife. At that minute she saw me. She ttrmed as white 
as her ft>uge would let her, gave a sort of scream, and stared at tne. 
Perhaps she thought she saw my ghost. At any rate, she pulled the 
cheek-string,' and drove away from me as fast as she could, whether I was 
in the Sf^rit or the fiesh. Of course! didn't let her give me the slip like 
thdt. I followed her to a dashing hotel in the Champs Elysees, and just 
as she stepped on the pavi6, af^er her grand green and gold chasseur, I 
stepped up^to her, and just said, 'Wdl, old giri, hoiv are you?' Hor- 
rible she looked^— as if she longed to kill me--^and, indeed, I dare say she 
did. ' Shei%ned m^ to silence, and said, ^Not now; come at eight this 
^rening/ I went; and she told me all her ^tory, and offered me, if I 
wooM ke^p quiet and tell nobody she was my 'wife, t6 |^ shares widi 
me in the money you allowed her provided she lived out of England. I 
dKraghtalKHit it a little. I saw I should get nothing by proclaiming omr 
maniage. T closed with her, and I lived at my ease. But she grew screwy ; 

88 GranviUe de Vigne. 

9he didn't pay up to time. She used to anticipate the money, and th^ 
defraud me of my share. At last it came into my head, when I heard 
you had come haek from India, to see what sort of gentleman you w«re, 
and whether you wanted your freedom bad enough to pay me a high 
price for it. You required a valet. I entered your aerrioe; and when 
I was sent down to Richmond with the parrot and the books and 
the flowevs, and so on> for that little lady — no, Majoi^ don't stop me, 
I mean no offence to her, and I must bring her name in to malw my 
• story clear — I thought the time would soon come, sir, when you^d give 
any price for your freedom, for I heard plenty of talk, sir, at that time, 
nboiU you and her ; servants trouble themselves more about their maflter's 
business than they do about their own. The day you diamissed me £rom 
your service, I.wasgoing to tell you, if you had only listened. But you 
were so impatient and so haughty, that I thought I'd let yoa go oq in 
igooziajice, and free yourself, if ever you wanted,, as best you might* I 
entered Lord Vane Castleton's service then. You know he hated yoa 
bitterly, because he was gone quite mad about Miss Tressiilian; had 
aet his heart upon her, just beeauae.he thought she belonged to you, and 
was not to be had. It seems, dr, he had been very good friends with 
Lucy in Paris, and he wrote and told her you were in love again, and 
with somebody who, he thought, didn't know you were married, and 
that if she wished to put a stop to it, she should come over andt^ 
Miss Alma# Over she did come, saw him first, and then • went to St 
Crucis ; and afkisc she'd been — I didn't see her, anddidni't know she was 
iaiLondon*— be sent me to bring Miss Tresrillian to Windsor, while yoa 
wezte sitting in coart*martial on Mr. Halkett. It was a dirty job, sii^ I 
Isnow, and a rascally one. Don't look at me so fiercely, Major, for G^^ 
sake« I am saary I did it now, for she'd sweet blue eyes, wat little lady, 
and I was never quite easy till I. knew she'd got out of Lord Vane^s 
clutches; she must have done it by some miracle, for no other woman 
ever .got away froniihim before. Then you went to the Crimea, and Lney 
paid worse and wx>rse; to be sure, she gave me that diamond oeintnre 
she wore on her wedding-day, yfMirpvesent to her, sir, I 'think, and it was 
good for a 1000/., but tbey wouldn't give me so mueh at the Mont de 
Pi^t^, and I owed moce than half what they did give me. At lasl I 
ttkotight I would try you again^ if only to spite Lucy, who was living 'in 
^lendour, and grudging me every shilling. I wrote to > you at the 
Crimea — I. called. to sptnak to you at Mi vart's^— finally, I traeked yea 
heire. Now I've told you all my tale, Major. I know you well eaengh 
to < know your word is assure a bond as another man's cheque ; aad'if 
you'll go withime, sb) to Trinity Church, Frestonhills, I'll showy ou^ the 
lingister of my. marriage, sir, which makes yours null and void." 

De. Vigne. leant against . the . old grey stone ; his faeO' was white with • the 
intensity of thesuddeu joy, his breathing came short and thidc, hisieyw 
were dark as night, with the rapture thrilUng through every nerve^ tiult 
seemed to stifle hinv in its intensity; his strong frame trembled like a 
woman's. The ecstasy of that hour! No criminal, condemned to deaA 
and SKiddenlyc* reprieved, felt the warm rush of fresh air welooming hmaB 
be issiiedr-ra free.,manrr-^m the darkness'of his^prison^eell of dooM, 
with deeper^ mora bsvrildering Joy, than he realised and wekoased his 
liheEtyfteiB.tbe: festering and bitter, chains that so long had dmggW 

Granvi/ie de Vigm. 89 

upon him-^kis Kbertyfrom the weary weighty the repented foUy, the 
hitter t^une- of an Early Marnage. 

He was siieiit, breathing fast' and loud, stm^gliDg to Tealise this posst- 
hility of Ifeedom. Then — he threw back- his head with a proud, joy^Bs 
gestttre ; he'loo^ped'up to the glad summer sun shtnkig -ahoi^e hi^ head ; 
he drew in with a deep long breath the free sweet air that streamed 
ftroufid \Am, He 'turned his eyes' upon the man, flashimg with their old, 
proad^ briiltast, shadowless light. 

<< Right ! I would |>ay any price fmr freedom. Let us go^onee. I 
wtH net' lose an hout< — a moment !'' 

He went-*— and the 'Sunlight played' oyer* his >mother*8 grave, seeming to 
linger fondly there, touching' the fragrant violets to a deeper blue, and the 
lilies to a purer sikrer. It was pitiM that the gentle and loving heairt, 
atiiled there'itiir^eferj could not a^ake -to -throb in unison with' her son^s 
joy, wnlknmnrhn'fiiMdem from that deadly* eupse wkese blow had' sent 
hereto her'ti^mb P Her love had been with him in his grief ; it was cruel 
thlEit her lotv* «oald not be with him in his joy. Gruel? ah, truly i-'-^ini 
«arth there is no Tnore bitter thing than the death that is an the midst^f 

• « 4^ # * 

-Frestonhills, unehanged, laynestlHig among the green pastures and 
fitesh woods «f 'Berk^ire, and ail the old frimiliar places struck strangely 
on him as he passed' them. There flowed the* silver Rennet, bright and 
tapid as t>f oM, rushing on its swift sunny way under the graeeftil 
bindges; andf past the wild luxuriant hedges; and through the quiet, 
ailecit ooutifnpy towos and villages. There, on its banks, were sehooltboys 
lyii^ among the purple clover and under the fragrant hawthorns, as 
poor little Curly had done long years ago. There were ^e dark palings, 
and the great forest-trees of the park of Weiveharst, long changed to 
other hands before its iightful owner was laid to rest, his grave marked 
only by a simple wooden cross, under the southern skies of Lorave. 
There, agaihst the blue heavens^ rose above its-woeds the grey pio- 
naclfes of th*e 6ld' house whcfre Alma Tressillian had made the roof ring 
vvith her chiMish laughter^ playing on the dark galteries, or out under 
the golden lahnmums that flung the same shadbws on ^ lawn, now, as 
Aen. There was the oM Chancery, its gable roofs and its low ivy- 
grown walls, as he passed. A lady glanced • up, ga^rdening among her 
jgerlininms and heliotropes-^ it was Miss Arabelfer— *the ringtets very 
grey now. A little farther on, in the old playtn^^tibld, there were me 
wickets;- and the bats, and' the jumping* poles, and fodr or five 'boys, in 
iheir^MrtsleeVes and their straw mtts, enjoying 'their half-holidayj as 
we had d^e bef>rethem. So life gees on ; when'one is bowled out* 
another ^1« 'ready to ^tep into his shoes, and, no matter 'hew^ many the 
^U of death may 'knock over, theericket of life is kept- up the same, 
and players are never 'Wanting. 

The register lay on the table under the arched ^^orman window of the 
vestry of the church where, twenty years before, we had fidgeted through 
the dreary peiiods of the rector's cruel sermon full an hour long, and 
oast glances over our hymn-books at the pastrycook's pretty daughters. 

The great old register, ponderous and dusty, lay on the table, the sun- 
beams from the stained glass above falling on its leather binding and 

90 Granville de Vigne. 

its thickly- written leaves, full of so many records of man's joy and sor- 
row, crowded with so many names that now were empty sounds ; penned 
by so many hands that were now crumbled to dust under the churchyard 
sods near by. The great register layon its table in the dark, quiet, 
solitary vestry — ^the last he had seen was the one in which he had signed 
his doom, eleven years before, in the church at Vigne. The old sexton 
unlocked the book, and with shaking infirm hand turned over the leaves 
one after the other. De Vigne leant against the table, watching for the 
entry, his breath short and laboured, his pulse beating with fever-heat, 
a mist before his eyes, a great agony of dxead — the dread of deception 
tightening his heart and oppressing him to suffocation. If the man*8 
story were not tr\ie I— if this, too, were a hoax and a fraud ! Breathless, 
trembling in every limb with fear and hope, he bent over tho book, 
pushing the old man's hand away ; his agony of impatience could not 
brook the slow and awkward fumbling of leaf after leaf — by the palded 
feebleness of age. He thrust the pages back one after another till he 
reached the year 18 — . Entry after entry met his eye; from lords of the 
manor, their ancestral names dashed across the page ; from poor peasants, 
who could only make their mark ; from feminine signatures, trembling 
and illegible ; marriage after marriage met his eager glance, but not yet 
the one which was to loosen his fetters and set him free. He turned the 
leaves over one after the other, his heart throbbing thick with wild hope 
and irrepressible fear. At last the setting sun, shining in through the 
rich hues of glory, the rubies and the ambers, the heads of saints, and 
the golden scrolls, and the blazoned shields on the stained window above 
his head, flung radiant colours on one dim yellow sheet, illumining with 
its aureole of light the two signatures he sought — the words that gave 
him ransom — the names that struck off his chains — 

Chablxs Tbepusis. 
Constance Lucy Davis. 

And as his eyes fell upon the page that freed him from the wife that had 
so long cursed his life, and stained his honour, and made his name 
abhorrent in his sight because she boro it, De Vigne staggered forward, 
and, flinging the casement open, leant out into the calm, fresh evening, 
stunned by his sudden deliverance as by some mortal blow, and gasping 
for breath, while the warm westerly wind swept over him, like a ma^n 
who has escaped from the lurid heat and stifling agony of fire into the 
pure, sweet air of a breaking dawn. 

He was Free ! The life that he had so madly sought to spend like 
water, and fling off from him as an evil too bitter to be home, among 
jungles of Scinde and on the steppes of the Crimea, was once more rich, 
and precious, and beloved ; — he learned at last what his wayward nature 
had been long ere it would believe, that the fate we deem a curse is 
oftentimes an angel in disguise, if we wait patiently for the unfolding of 
^ts wings from the darkness that enshrouds them. 

( 91 ) 


Of the seven Ionian Islands — the Heptanisos — which now in a 
united federal league are under the protection of the great and uncon- 
quered Albion, how many are the classic associations — the interesting 
sites of scenes which, either for their*present matchless beauty or for their 
antecedents, are viewed with such feelings of admiration by all those who 
love what is beautiful in nature, or characterised in history, as being the 
subjects dwelt upon with enthusiasm by classic writers ? — the Phoeacia, 
where Ulysses suffered shipwreck, and where, even n6w, the figure of his 
ship is isisserted by the present Greeks to stand, there being a rocky 
island in the form of a ship, which is invariably shown to the visitor as 
such, near the harbour of Corfu ; the marshy Leucadi^, where you are 
shown the beetling cliff from which Sappho is said to have leaped ; the 
&med Tetrapolis, where the Cyclopean ruins of Samos, in their colossal 
magnitude, still arrest the gaze of the traveller — where the remaining^ 
stones of PaT^, Prbn^, and Kranii, the other three great ancient cities, still 
present the mouldering ruins of grandeur — where the frequent mountains, 
gloomy and grand, though barren in appearance, ai^ most prolific in their 
produce of grapes; the classic Ithaca, the spot most favoured of any of 
them, where yet you are shown the school which Homer was said to have 
studied at, and the castle which Penelope inhabited: the beautiful 
Zacynthus, now called the flower of the Levant, immortalised by Virgil : 

Jam medio apparet flactu nemorosa Zacynthus; 

the sequestered Cerigo, where Yenus was born — the ancient Cythera ; 
and the small rocky islet called Paxo — all these, under the modern 
names of Corfu, Cephalonia, Santa-Maura, Ithaca, Zante, Cerigo, and 
Paxo, are called the Septinsular Republic, and united in one government, 
whose parliament and house of judicature is at Corfu, which is much the 
most important of all of them, and the best locality, whether as regards 
climate, civilisation, number of inhabitants, produce, or presence of Eng- 
lish residents. It is true that the appearance of Zante is strikingly fine, 
presenting in the interior a vast plain, where the richly-ci^ltivated soil 
produces in the greatest abundance the grape, the passdlini, or Zante 
currant, the mulberry, the orange, and lemon— where the wild myrtle 
abounds-*-and whiere the pitch wells are objects, of much wonder. Out 
of these are drawn the pitch in a state perfectly fitted for use. I have 
myself seen several vessels filled with the pitch just as it came from the 
well. No implement of a more scientific nature than a common broom 
or a bucket was used in drawing it up. The soil of the ground which 
surrounded the wells was apparently common earth, and how the collec- 
tion of black resinous matter had accumulated, I never heard accounted 
for. The upper surface of the well was water. The mountains also on 
this island, covered with olive groves, are singulat^ly beautiful ; and its 
silk manufactories are famed throughout the islands. The appearance 
of the vast extended plain, bespangled with flowers of every colour — of 
the oleander, rhododendrons, myrtle, and others — and teeming with the 
genial produce which the most kindly climate gives to the country, when 
seen from the mountain-top which lies south of this island, leads you to 

92 The Ionian Islands. 

understand the phrase which the Greek inhabitants use when speaking of 
it. They say it is '^ Zante fior di Levante." But both this island and 
Santa-Maura are subject to earthquakes. Cephalonia is also visited fre- 
quently by them ; but I have always heard that the shocks of earthquake 
in the last^mentioned t^wsd have never been so violent s^^those wiiich 
have been experienced by tbe inhabitants of Zanta and Santa- Maura. 
In the town of Santa* Maura t^ houses are constructed jo as to guard 
against these cAiocks' of earthqai^^ being buih' with the* upper storieg 
pvojeoting, and sofitported by wooden angular iratne^y wUeh are eaUed 
tfj the buitdera, knees; P^ixa if 'a mere rock* IndciBd, a^diougb it be 
well known that the oHve oil produced iu this simdl island is preferable 
to that of any of the others^ it eanscareety b« re^^arieelp bat as a seene 
of exile foraa unfortunate military officer, whose duty may destine kifai 
to inhabit it. I may speak of ^Cephalonia when we come to mention tirte 
diBturbances which ocottrred' there; but for the Englisbman who wishes 
to ) enjoy a residenee in the Mediterranean, Corfn is ocrtainly the plca^ 
santest locality. Here the walks lead through extensive olive planted 
tions, vineyards, orange grotves^- plantations' of wild myrtle, the grounib 
onhivated with com and flix, the mouwlakis planted with olives aad 
oypress-trees* The harbour is a fine one, and in its adjacent temporary 
diode, called the Mendrachio, are numerous yachts, winch belong to tna 
officers of the regrmetits stationed in the iskuoid, or the^official resulHiti; 
Id these, during laoet days* of' the sohry summer, the most deKgktM 
excursions can W had easily, wi^n the reach of those fond of saiKagi 
The harboursj or small bays, which lie at diffemit' iatervak en the 
eastern coast of the island, all are well adapted for the lay of small 
vessels, and present scenes full of attraction to every visitor fond of 
rural scenery. The places for landing on the opposite shore, at Al^nia, 
are equally enjoyable in their way, and for sportsmen are more resorted 
to than the anchorages in Corfu. In the former, there is the gprand, 
wild, mountainous outline that marks a country which yet retains the 
same characteristics as those spoken of by Gibbon, when be said tbaft'a 
country within a short sail of Europe is as wild and strange to its- inha* 
bitants as the backwoods of America. There, in the interior, the 'high 
mountain ranges of Pindus, Suli, and others, are covered at the top with 
snow for a great part of the year. The lowlands- are mostly remarked 
for their tlnck woody covers, and mountain eaverrrs here and there phieed 
at intervals. They display the same appearance which the wildest and 
most newly-discovered shores exhibit to the voyagers who sail to firr- 
distant climes. There is the rude, untrimmed forest of thick underwood, 
the stone-covered plain, or the mountain cavern ; but the names of the 
inland localities still remind you in several places of the mention which 
they bear in the ^neid of Virgil. TWs Butrinta is the ^ Celsam 
Buthroti urbem ;" and fnr^r downward, passing Levitazzi, Gomeniaan^ 
Morta, and the harbour of the last-mentioned j^ce, whieh is most eom-^ 
modious for all sorts of craft, you have the same names of localities' as 
those spoken of by Virgil: the 

Sameque et Neritos ardua saxis — 

the *' ScopuJoa Ithacse ;" aad 

Leucat» nisabosa oacaminA mortia— 

The Ionian Islands. 93 

^ieh are yet called Samos, Ithaca, and Leucadia is sometiines giTen a» 
tlie name of Sanift- Maura. Before reaching this last island as yom sail on- 
ward, you come to the bay of Arta, on whose western coast lie the miiia 
of Nicopohs^ 

Where the second Casar's trophies rose. 

Now, like the hand that reorea them, withering ; 

so that the Albanian shore (which, if it do boast of any beauty, it is cer- 
tainly of a rugged character) .ia still replete with scenes of classic interest 
— ^in enumerate .and to dilate upon them, would take volnmee— 
Macedonia^ the birthplace of Alexander, Epirus, Illyria, Tempe's Vale, 
aod hosts, of othenL But for the peaceful loYcliness of r nature, the rich 
evergretsn foliaget of the oHve groves, the balmy incenae.of the myrtle 
plantations in blossom, the walks of orange groves, the rocks on whose 
recesses the wild violets, fragrant and abundant, fill the still ether with 
their perfume, the vineyards teeming with their delicious fruit in profu- 
sion, the fields of gran turco, with their promise of plenteousness — with 
all these the sight and the senses are more delighted at Corfu than in any 
other of the se<ven islands. Indeed, I doubt if it be not more charming 
than any residence, amongst the islands of the Mediterranean. It also is 
a very conveni^t distance from Italy and Greece. It is only a short, 
sail from Trieste and Ath^is, and Patras can be readily reached from it* 
The transit from either of these, places to Constantinople, Syria, or to 
Egypt,, is very easy; and the steam voyage to any of them from Corfu ig 
really so short, .that, in these days of loeoraotioa, sudb a trip is of every- 
day occurrence. So the advantages of a winter residence in Corfu ase 
very many, aad the number of visitors to its capital are numerous. A 
sketch deseribing the customs, dress, manners, religion, and habits of 
the Corfietes, together with their £east-days and amusements, has beea 
given in Bentle^^s Miscellany for November, 1859, and February, 1860; 
but there have been, since the time adverted to in those sketches, soverdl 
distAirhances m the looaan Islands, which drew the attention of England 
to the sites where such scenes had taken place. I know not, however, if 
they have been as yet recorded in such a way as to make the public aot 
quainted with the detail of them. 

Corfu, which derives its name from a high mountain headland^ 
icojpv^, whi^ stands over the citadel of its town, and which is a most, 
prominent object to those sailing up the Adriatic, has been usually free 
from the disturbances which its larger sister-island, Cephalonia, has been 
so often subject to. Whether this arises from the greater civilisation of 
the town, which is full of Italian shops, and traders from other countries^ 
the presence of the English lord high commissioner, with the heads o( 
the military departments and two full regiments, the superior fortifica*^ 
tions in possesion of the British, or the more peaeeable character of the 
natives, I cannot say, but during the whole of the disturbances in 
1849 it was just as quiet as any town in England vci^uld have beeiu 
The English there resident enjoyed themselves very much during the 
winter with the resources which the opera and the numerous parties at 
the lord high commissioner's palace, and at other houses, continually 
going OB, gave them, and, during the summer, with yachting and pic^nic 
ezomrsions. Of the produce which its soil is prolific in, numerous details 

94 The Ionian Islands. 

are given in many treatises. The salt-pits are a great source of wealdi 
to the persons who own the property adjacent to the bay where the pits 
are laid. The olives are productive always to a certain extent, but it is 
only about once in ten years that a very abundant season occurs. The 
maccaroni works are well worthy of a visit. The wine-making and the 
vintage have been treated elsewhere. The island is certainly more 
generally a resort of Europeans of other parts of the continent, and less 
a Greek colony, than any of the others. The native Romaic is only 
spoken by very few of the gentry exclusively, and by some of the lowest- 
order of the agricultural classes ; but in the town every one understands 
Italian, and not a few of the gentry speak French and English fluently. 
The Greek nobility in Corfu have apparently lost sight of the illiberal 
habit of secluding the unmarried females of their families in the way 
usually practised by Greeks in other places. 

Cephalonia in 1849.- 

To resume the sketch of the occurrences which took place in Cepha* 
Ionia. At the close of the year 1848, that direful year for monarchies, 
and fatal one to Louis Philippe's power, which was one of the epochs in 
history marked by a convulsion which spread over the whole of Central 
and Southern Europe, the vigilant and efficient measures resorted to by 
Lord Seaton seemed to have had the effect of restoring tranquillity to 
the island. But, shortly after New Year's Day, a very remarkable time 
of year in the Ionian Islands, as all the Greek inhabitants invariably on 
the coming of the new year visit one another and offer mutual congratu- 
lations, the Black Mountain became the scene of a fearful tragedy. 
There was a half-pay officer, named Parker, who had been married to a 
Greek lady of Cephalonia, and who held a small appointment under our 
government which gave him the charge of travelling about the most un- 
frequented parts of Cephalonia ; and he was called the forester of the 
island. Through that wild, bleak, inhospitable region he used, summer 
and winter, to be perpetually roving on foot. His habits of constant 
exercise and athletic frame had given him a wonderful power of en- 
durance, and he was one of the best pedestrians I ever met with. In 
the month of January, 1849, he had taken up his residence in the 
cottage near the Black Mountain, and lived there with his wife, intend- 
ing to remain stationed at it for a short period. Very soon after the 
New Year's Day ceremonials, the officers of the station had resolved upon 
having a party in the mess-room, and upon inviting all the Greek gentry 
in the island who were known in society to it. The invitations had 
actually been issued, and all parties were anxiously looking forward to 
the evening in question, when the feelings of the English inhabitants 
were shocked, and the state of the community quite disturbed, by a 
dreadful piece of intelligence which reached Argostoli about a week 
before the day named for the party. It appeared that Parker had gone 
out for a walk in the pine forest shortly after his having dined with his 
wife, and continued his stroll till he got into one of the most unfre- 
quented paths of the wood. This was what his wife stated, and to her 
alone the English residents could trust for any information relative to 
him. That she had heard shots fired, and ran out in the direction 

The Ionian Islands. 95 

whence they came. There were no servants in the house. That she ran 
wildly through the forest, and at last came to the spot where she thought 
the shots issued from. That there she saw her husband's body lying ; 
one bullet had gone through his leg, two through his chest, and one 
through his head. The body was still warm, but he had ceased to 
breathe. She ran down in a frantic state to the road which led to Argos- 
toli, and never ceased till she had reached the town, and told the autho- 
rities of the dreadful murder. This took place late in the evening, and 
the next day a party went up, by order of the commandant, to bring the 
body of the unfortunate gentleman into Argostoli, and to have an inquest 
upon it. The verdict which they gave, of course, was that wilful murder 
had been committed by some parties unknown. But no Greek or inha- 
bitant, no servant or resident, had been found to give any information 
relative to the cause or to the fact of having seen any armed persons or 
any disaffected characters either on the Black Mountain or elsewhere in 
the vicinity of the cottage. His wife was the only informant. This state 
of doubt, and the very uncertain character of the inhabitants of the island, 
showed the necessity of being on the watch strictly, and the general 
grief which was entertained by all the English gentry on finding that this 
respected individual had met with such an appalling death, made them, 
one and all, resolve to postpone the preparations for the party. He was 
buried with military honours. After this, a very great gloom pervaded 
the society of the island. The military were constantly on the qui vive. 
The alarms were frequent. The calls to attend at night in different * 
localities of Argostoli under arms, and wait for several hours, until day- 
light, were of common occurrence. I recollect particularly two occasions, 
one in which we remained in a chapel to the north side of the town, and 
posted sentries all round the approaches. We were alarmed by a shot. 
One of the sentries, who was posted in a narrow lane, had his hand lace- 
rated by a bullet which had been discharged at him, but by whom, it 
was impossible to discover. On another occasion, two shots had been 
fired at a sentry near the house where several of the military were 
stationed, but, being rather high in their range, had gone far over their 
mark, and had perforated the sails of one of the men-of-war which was 
lying in the harbour of Argostoli ; so there was no doubt of a very hostile 
animus existing in the island to the British. The freedom of the press, 
which had been granted some little time before, had been the means of 
letting loose upon the world a flood of the wildest and most republican 
notions, which were published by the Greek residents in the island, bear- 
ing upon the necessity of the annexation of the island government to 
Greece, the throwing off the yoke of the British, and the free red repub- 
lican sentiments which had found birth in Paris and been disseminated 
through Southern Europe at that time. The natives of the country used 
to be seen at work in the fields together, shouting out their songs, and 
evidently engaged in a train of thought, which their language, being 
strange to the English, could not assist the latter in seeing the drift of; 
but one song which I recollect particularly, commencing Ziyro EXXa^, &c., 
was a gr^at favourite with the Greeks, and it was descriptive of Greece 
being the finest and first of countries, to which all others were at one 
time subject. The energetic and demonstrative manners of the popula- 
tion which inhabit Southern Europe have been often remarked, and in no 
May — VOL. cxxviii. no. dix. h 

96 The Ionian Islands. 

countries <]o the mannei's of the natives exhibit more of the animation 
which is inseparable from the French, and which is made the ridicule of 
the English, than in the Ionian Islands. But no violence of any kind 
was shown to any individual soldier or officer in the neighbourhood of 
Argostoli in the daytime. Often have I walked alone in the long kmely 
walk which leads from the back or inner part of the town of Argostoli to 
Metaxata, and so round through the mountain district to the town 

This walk is a distance of tliirteen miles, and when I first arrived in the 
island it had a charm for me, as I was anxious to see the house where the 
great poet Lord Byron used to reside. The road at first lay through an 
olive grove, which lies between the foot of the hill on virhich the town is 
ntuate and the country. Afiter leaving the grove, I passed the high 
ground on my right for some way, and afterwards proceeded through a 
level country to Metaxata, a distance of about six miles from the olive 
g^rove. The only objects which attracted attention on the route were the 
detached farm-houses of the Greek landholders, where the principal oocu* 
pation seemed to be, amongst the labourers, that of laying out the fruit 
•—bunches of small grape, called in the country passolini. Those they had 
left on the frames, to dry in the sun, had become shrivelled up to the 
small size of the currants which we use in England in our puddings. 
After they have been collected in large quantities they are put into huge 
hogsheads, and the men stamp them down with their naked feet. From 
* this island there are more of these currants sent than from any in the 
Ionian group, although the name given them in England by the gisoeen 
is Zante currants. When I arrived at the village of Metaxata, my first 
object was to inquire from an aged Greek which house it was that Locd 
Byron had lived in. He took me himself to a long, lumbering, store- 
hou8e*looking building, the dwelling apartments o.f which were ascended 
by an outer flight of stairs, which had its entrance in a court-yard of 
small dimensions. This court-yard stood in the back part of the building, 
and it appears it was the place where the poet used to practise pistol- 
shooting. The old Italian carekeeper, who lived in the house, asked me 
to enter, and I went in with him. The upper part of the house had only 
four habitable rooms, and they were of low pitch, and very small. They 
would have been, apparently, more appropriate for a shopkeeper's resi- 
dence than that of an English nobleman. The lower part of the house 
was also divided into ground-floor chambers ; one was a large stable, and 
the other a kitchen. The carekeeper seemed intelligent, and told me what 
he knew of Lord Byron, whom he had often seen. He was a man of 
about sixty years of age. He showed me the marks of the bullets where 
his noble nost used to fire pistols against the wall. I heard from many, 
both in Cephalonia and elsewhere, that Lord Byron when there used to 
ride out in company with the oflicers of the garrison frequently, and that 
he did not to them ever show himself the exclusive and unsocial being 
that he was believed to be by English travellers. 

The village of Metaxata is near, and does not contain more than abont 
fifty houses. The houses have an air of poverty, but are sufficiently well 
built. From this place there is a good road, which leads round to the 
harbour of Argostoli. A little before I got into the town I saw a curious- 
looking building — a Chinese pagoda — which had been erected by a Count 
Balsamachi, by way of an ornament to his grounds. This count is married 

The Ionian Islands. 97 

to the widow of the great Bishop Heber, so well known for his Indian 
travels, and the great goodness which his truly Christian spirit evinced. 
The town of Argostoli is certainly the largest town in the island, though 
Oephalonia was formeriy the capital. The streets are broad and well 
laid out, and bear high-sounding names, such as Ulyssas»street, the street 
of Themistocles, the road of Parnassus, the highway of Dionysius, 
labelled in Greek characters on their comer houses. The bottom stories 
of the bouses are, where they belong to shopkeepers, arched, and the 
fltrches enclose stores of currants in hogsheads, wine in barrels, haber- 
dashery laid on shelves, dried fish and olives, and that dainty so peculiar 
to the islands, the caviare, or fish'ovarium, which is prized as a delicacy by 
the Greeks. The stores seem all to contain oil, groceries, sweetmeats 
made in conserves, chocolate, and, as it were, an omnium gatherum of all 
that is at all saleable, either for eating or for putting on. The Tribunale 
— a fine building in the centre of the town-^was the most remarkable 
object in it. The shopkeepers — most of them— spoke the Venetian- 
Italian common to the islands. Whatever the morals or the principles of 
the Greeks might be, their manners were decidedly most prepossessing. 
Their love of music was very remarkable. Their songs, whether love 
ditties, or of a mournful character, sounded like the Italian romanzas. I 
recollect an instance of the partiality which the female portion of the com- 
munity used to evince for singing. It was on the occasion of an officer 
who had gone in search of arms to one of the villages in the interior. He 
entered with a Greek guide and some soldiers into the house inhabited by 
one of the chief Greek landholders, who was supposed to be a ringleader 
in the commotions which had lately taken place in the island. The officer 
was a great performer on the guitar, to which he used to sing. After he 
bad entered the house he commissioned the interpreter to go out in search 
of the arms with the soldiers. There were no men inside. He took up 
an instrumeift — a guitar — which was lying on the table, and played and 
sung for the ladies. One of the young ladies, on his finishing his song, 
enibraeed him. As her mother was present, and also a sister, it could have 
been only an ebullition of the pleasure which she felt in hearing the music 
thct caused her to do this. But the impulsive burst of joy with which the 
inhabitants of the islands welcome any music that pleases them, is quite 
surprising to the tame and unimpassioned English. 

There is another favourite walk in the vicinity of Argostoli which takes 
you along the quay — a broad, spacious, and lengthened route, which ex- 
tends from the bridge that crosses the marsh to a plateau in front of the 
gaol. On dils plateau the military parade, and drills take place, and the 
barracks are situated at its farther end. From the barracks there is a 
road leading to the sea. At the extreme point of this road there is a 
natural curiosity, which all the visitors of Cephalonia and its inhabitants 
view with wonder. It is a large stream, which flows with great force 
from the sea through a narrow creek, and descends by four channels into 
the earth, and after this all trace of the water is lost. A short distance 
from where the stream issues a mill has been constructed, which brings 
in much profit to the owner. After this the road takes a circuit, and you 
pass by a line of country where the aloes grow in great profusion by the 
side of the road, which takes you into the back part of the town of 


98 The Ionian Islands. 

These different walks were the principal places for taking exercise in 
the afternoons, but the mornings were generally taken up by the military 
drills. The leading agent who gave impetus to the movements in these 
was a character who never ceased to cause either excitement, amusement, 
or feelings of exasperation. Never before have I seen the spirit of 
petty tyranny, the vapouring airs of a man ^* dressed in a little brief 
authority," so conspicuously exhibited as in this individual. His natural 
demeanour reminded one of the words used by Dr. Moore when speaking 
of Zeluco as a planter: '*He was in a situation where there was no one 
to control him, and the capricious cruelty of his disposition had no check 
to awe him." Daily the officers were subject to his pergonal attacks, in 
presence of the soldiers under them. I recollect one or two instances. 
One young officer, who had moved to a wrong position on the parade, 
was thus accosted : " Where is that duck-footed officer going ?" This was 
said in reference to his feet, which were not symmetrical. Another, who 
was very tall, who had proceeded at a run in a wrong direction with his 
company : *^ Look at the man six foot high dancing off there ! Call him 
back !" To another, who had gone to the wrong dank of his company: 
'^ Will any one shove that man into his right place? What would his 
mother say if she saw him now ?" This officer had just heard the sad 
news of his mother's death. Also the frequent number of times in which 
the different detachments were harassed by this Field-Marshal Froth, as 
he was universally called, was truly annoying. However, aflter one occa- 
sion, in which he had sent the different officers of the regiments quartered 
there away from the mess-room at eleven o'clock at night, along with 
their companies, in various directions, the news of this proceeding 
reached Lord Seaton at Corfu, and his lordship thought it expedient to 
put a stop to the system of false alarms, and sent a resident down from 
Corfu, belonging to the Royal Engineers, who accordingly took charge 
of the civil administration of the island, and freed it from the martinet's 

This was a source of great joy to the military; but shortly after this 
happened there was a great change in the government of the Ionian 
Islands, and much to the grief of all parties, inasmuch as the lord high 
commissioner, who had earned such golden opinions from all parties, i&nd 
who had given such boons to the population as the freedom of the press 
and the vote by ballot, wojs removed from the command, owing to his 
period of service having expired. He carried with him on his departure 
the most cordial good wishes and the enthusiastic greetings of nurewell 
from all inhabitants of Corfu, young and old, high and low, civil and 
military. He had the inestimable gift of managing to combine dignity 
with courteousness, and rendering both those under his command as 
soldiers, and under his sway as citizens, respectful, zealous, and amenable. 
When in moments of difficulty and danger, there was no man that re- 
minded one more of the self-control and tact which w^re ascribed' to 
^neas by the poet Virgil : 

Curisque ingentibus seger, 
Spem vultu simulat. 

The Greeks are certainly also a very difficult people to deal with. The 
specious placidity of manner, the crafty duplicity of mind, the thorough- 
paced treachery of soul which characterises them now, as it did formerly, 

The Ionian Islands, 99 

if the ancient writers may be believed, is still accompanied with much 
talent and eloquence, much of the 

Xtyvff TnlkLfov ayoprjrris 
Tvo Koi airh yK^(T(nfS fieXiros yXvKiav pccv avdrf. 

They are fond of show, of exhibitions, and of society. They joined the 
parties given at the palace of Corfu, where the chivalrous old nobleman 
and his amiable family g^ced the banquet and the ball-room, and did all 
they could to conciliate and captivate the higher ranks of the Ionian in- 
habitants. But all the exterior show of complaisance which they ex- 
hibited, both in Corfu, at the palace, and in the other islands, when they 
met the English in society, was feigned and fictitious. They no doubt 
harboured the same feelings of resentment to the British which many of 
their countrymen in the islands evinced by their treacherous acts in the 
remote parts of the country afterwards. But the officers saw little of 
them at their own houses. The Greek gentry seldom, if ever, invite any 
one to their meals. Their days of festival are usually in summer-time, 
out in the air, alfresco. We used to meet in the hot summer and spring 
months at the bathing-places in the morning, where they, as well as the 
officers, used to enjoy the delightful pastime of swimming. In no place 
is this more enjoyable than at Corfu, and consequently every morning 
brought a vast assemblage of visitors to the scaffolding from which the 
men used to jump into the sea. Notwithstanding the circumstance of a 
soldier having lost his life by having been taken down by a shark while 
swimming in the bay, early in the spnng of that year, one morning 
during the summer two officers, who were there stationed with their re- 
giments, actually swam across the broad harbour, a mile across, to the 
island of Yido, which lies opposite Corfu citadel, and back again. The 
under-current which flows near the shore of the island of Yido was the 
chief impediment which they had to contend against. But such was the 
heat of the weather at the time that this was done, that they had ac- 
complished their feat and returned to the scaffolding on the Corfu side 
before eight o'clock in the morning. 

No change can be greater than that which is presented by the appear- 
ance of the rocky, wild, gloomy, and bleak aspect of Cephalonia to one 
coming from the abundantly- wooded and well-cultivated island of Corfu. 
The wilderness as contrasted with the garden — a change from the smiling 
paradise to the uncouth desert — is what meets the eye of the voyager. 
But it is not only the face of nature that seems different. The climate 
is considered very unhealthful in Cephalonia, and several officers and men 
bad suffered there from low fever. There is a marsh which extends for 
a considerable distance inland from the harbour, which in the hot weather 
is pregnant with noxious exhalations. This, and the lofty mountains and 
darksome glens, in place of the myrtle groves, the orange plantations, 
the numerous woods of olive-trees, and the vineyards of Corfu, are very 
striking in their contrast. But the scenes which were enacted in the 
recesses of it& sullen-looking and sombre mountain glens during the 
summer of 1849 were truly frightful and appalling. I question if any 
blacker act of cruelty or cowardice, any greater exhibition of the paltry 
and dastardly malignity of the assassin, any more heinous example of the 
*^ scelerum tantorum artisque Pelasgise," was ever shown in ancient or 

100 Tlie Ionian Islands. 

modern times than what happened, soon after Lord Seaton's departure^ 
in the mountains of Cephalonia. The inroad of the Greek populace upon 
the town of Argostoli, the barbarous murder of poor Captain Parker, 
might have prepared the English for some further demonstrations of 
hostility to be shown to them by the Greeks, but this act to which I now 
refer was perpetrated upon the inhabitants of Cephalonia> who were their 
own countrymen. In a glen of one of the wildest mountain . ranges ia 
the island was situated the house of a Greek gentleman named Meiaia^ 
the head of a family, which was well known in the island, and wbast 
name was so widely spread throughout its Tillages and homesteads, thai,, 
like the names of the Highland chiefs, it formed a clan, as it were, wheat 
members were obliged to resort to distinctive cogpaomens in order, to bft 
properly designated and distinguished by their different brethren. But 
thb individual had given great offence to the Greek inhabitants by some 
means or other, and, as is usual with the lawless and refractory mal- 
contents of any country, his refraining from joining the leaders in their 
rebellious proceedings was resented by them more deeply on account of 
bis being a native of the island than if he had recently been.establiahed 
there. This man's house was far from any other, and in the adjacent 
hills, which were divided by the valleys, lonely and wild, be cultivated 
the dwarf plantations of vines, the *^ passolini," which produced sa 
abundantly the currants for which the island is so famous. The noonn* 
tain-sides were encircled by terraces, on whose flats the plants were in 
great numbers. The habitation was, as it were^ an isolated spot, snr* 
rounded by terraces, and easily approachable by those who came on foot. 
One night, during the spring of 1849, a tribe of Greeks, in great numbers, 
headed by a man named Vlako, surrounded this house. They came 
pouring down from the different tops of the hills, bearing in their bauds 
logs of wood, besides the fire-arms which numerous parties bad in tbeir 
possession, and which they had had concealed in the pits. Their first act 
was to place the billets of dry wood round the house^ to the windofw*^ 
frames, to the doors, pile them up on the roof by ladders, and when they 
had done this, they set fire to these piles of wood in at least a dozen dt£» 
ferent places. The wood soon kindled — the fiames arose— the house 
fixtures of old wood soon blazed away. The hapless inmates, consisting, 
of the man, his wife, two children, and two servants, were first roused to 
their extreme danger by finding themselves wholly surrounded by the 
flaming rafters, and smoke issuing from all parts of the building, and.sav^; 
that their escape from the frightful death was totally impossiUe. Aa 
soon as the cruel miscreants perceived that the deadly fire was issuing 
&om every window and aperture of the building, they assembled in order^ 
and took their departure to the try sting-place, which had been fixed on 
for their meeting previous to their departure to pursue this diabolical 
enterprise. Some hours after their departure, a party of two or three 
policemen saw the smoke at a distance, and, going towards the hous^ 
they found that the building was nearly a shell, and that the floors had 
tumbled in. Tiiey hurried in to Argostoli to give the alarm» and to bring 
back a party of the military. The party which returned were with dk^ 
ficulty enabled to enter the ruined building, and on doing so they dis- 
covered the bodies of the unhappy man, his wife, children, and serrants, 
all of them burnt to ashes* 

The Ionian Islands. 101 

When the resident of the island — the officer who had heen appointed 
to take diarge of it hy Lord Seaton — had heard a full account of this 
transaction, and had ascertained the truth of the dreadful lengths to 
whi<^ the Greek population had gone, he proceeded to inform the 
new lord high oommissioner, Sir Henry Ward, and to detail to him the 
different circumstances which had taken place in Cephalonia. Horrors 
of a similar character I know to have taken place in other countries — in 
Ireland, where a family of the name of Sheen had been burned alive in 
their home, and the murderers, notwithstanding this, escaped — but so 
cold-blooded, cruel, and malignant was the deed now perpetrated by these 
islanders on those who were brethren to them in religion as well as in 
country, that the recital of the fact caused a sensation of thrilling indig- 
nation and intense disgust to seize the minds of all the English com- 
munity in Corfu. The lord high commissioner, Sir H. Ward, first 
ordered a regiment to proceed to Cephalonia, and placed the island 
under martial law. This was reckoned a very severe measure in Eng- 
land, but it j^ould be borne in mind that the animus which evidently was 
pervading the acts of the Greek population in the island required most 
stringent and eoercive measures to meet it, and that the habitual treachery 
of their conduct rendered them totally undeserving of any soothing treat- 
ment. It was ascertained that Vlako, and the other ringleaders in this 
movement, had always been in the habit of availing themselves of the ser- 
vices of the Greek priests when they wished to excite the population to 
acts of atrocity. Thus the priest would enter a village with a cross borne 
before him, and would call on the primario, or head man, who was the 
leading citizen of the locality, and, in company with him, would proceed 
to denounce with curses the acts of some English functionary, and pro- 
nounce to the unlettered and rude inhabitants of the soil that the religion 
of their fathers had been desecrated, and that it would become them to 
stand forward as champions in defence of it. From those who derived alt 
their hopes, their trust, and their concern in life, temporal and spiritual, 
from the clergy who were immediately over them, little could be expected 
of judgment or of mental power to withstand such denunciations ; and 
the consequence of such frequent and such earnest appeals was the agitated 
state of feeling which the minds of the peasantry was thrown into. Even 
in the town of Atgostoli — the head-quarters of the military — there was a 
house which was appropriated for the meeting of a Greek club, and over 
the door, in Italian, were the words that no English person was admitted 
tiiere. The first act of the resident and the authorities in the island was 
to lay down a series of patroles and stations for the military, and to set 
on foot a search for the delinquents who were implicated in the murder 
of Captain Parker, and the burning of Metaxa's house. Throughout the 
whole of the island, in the villages, the glens, the passes, the convents, 
the large farm-houses, and the ruined buildings, the parties of military 
were stationed, and their constant marching and continual privations 
made the service not a little harassing to the troops. Of course the prin-^ 
cipal information which they could procure, through the medium of the 
police, was by urging parties to become king's evidence. This was, to a 
great degree, snccessful eventually ; but previous to their being able ta 
lay their hands upon the most culpable of the criminals, they had to un- 
dergo the greatest hardships, by watching, in situations pointed out to 

102 The Ionian Islands. 

them by spies, at night, and to practise the most incessant vigilance in 
order to waylay or to seize the principal offenders. By the provisions of 
the martial law an officer was empowered to seize on an offender who had 
been caught in the act of any transgression to the military commands, 
such as absence from his village, or haranguing the populace, or other 
misdemeanours of a like nature, and to inflict either corporal punishment 
there and then, or to send him into Argostoii for trial, if the ease was of 
a serious nature. The inhabitants were thus actually sabjeeted to be 
tried for their lives by a court-martial. The principal objection to such 
a mode of proceeding as this, lies in the very imperfect and vague notion 
which most young military men entertain of the principles of legal equity. 
The law of evidence is not sufficiently explained in any of the treatises 
on military law, so far as regards offences which are not of a military 
nature, so that, doubtless as it was that the flagrant acts of rebellion had 
been constantly perpetrated in the island, and were, in fact, rife in the 
vicinity of every military station, still the power of visiting such offences 
with punishment was vested in individuals far too inexperienced and too 
unquatified to act as judges. By the dictum of some young officers, aged 
about tweuty, a priest — a man whose character for sano^ity was most 
reverenced by the villagers in whose town he officiated— -was sentenced 
to corporal punishment. This occurred in many instances. So many 
were the victims upon whom this punishment was visited thus summarily 
and swiftly, that actually before the expiration of the period of tame to 
which the martial law extended, eighty persons had suffered corporal 
punishment. But this degradation, exemplary and exasperating as it 
was, was as nothing compared to the numbers who were capitally con- 
victed. I have not an exact account of the number, but believe it nearly 
amounted to forty. I recollect an instance of fourteen prisoners who 
were sent into Argostoii to be tried for their lives. This was a solemn 
case, and ought to have been treated in a solemn manner ; but as indica* 
tive of the careless and slipshod manner in which the course of judicial 
trials was conducted at that time in this island, it was positively the fact, 
that the officer who liad sent them in for trial, having received from some 
of the officers in Argostoii a message that they were in want of provisions, 
had hung a turkey or a fowl round the neck of each ci]dprit,and found 
means of thus sending into the town the supply of stock which his conn 
rades were in want of. But the trial or the execution of the minor 
offenders were thought lightly of, neither was any event looked upon as 
important compared with the circumstance which absorbed the minds and 
the attentions of all parties, both civil and military — this was the capture 
of the arch-delinquent and leading incendiary, Vlako. He was the ruling 
spirit that had given impulse and impetus to all the acts which had been 
set on foot by the insurgents in the island. In every popular iiisurrectiea 
there is invariably a guiding character, a ringleader, who is the nudeiis 
of sedition and the teterrima causa of commotion, and this man, from 
first to last, had enacted this part in Cephalonia. Towards his move- 
ments also the eyes of the governing authorities and their subordinates 
were invariably fixed. Every "day's report*' brought some news of his 
having been somewhere, and varied, indeed, were the canards which weie 
afloat with regard to him. Sometimes he had taken shipping and gone 
to Greece ; sometimes he had managed to escape in a boat to the coasts 

Tlie Ionian Islands. 103 

of Italy ; sometimes he had eluded the vigilance of all the police, and had 
betaken hims^ to Corfu, in the wilds of the Albanian mountains, 
rugged and bleak, only a few hours' sail from Cephalonia. Many said 
he had found shelto, and that like the great AH Pasha, he was occupy- 
ing a mountain fastness^ behind whose natural barriers, with a few fol- 
lowers, he might bid defiance to the attempts of the forces, however 
numerous, which should be sent against him. Scarcely a doubt could 
exist that ail these reports, which rumour— 

Monstnun hprrendum. 

Tot lingiifiB totidem ora sonant tot subrigit aures — 

had spread so widely and diffused so generally, had been first propagated 
by the friends of Vlako, with the intention of deceiving the authorities, 
and endeavouring to place them on a wrong scent. The crafty dissimu- 
lation and the wily art of the Greek character was quite congenial to the 
plot of assuming the guise of a friendly spy, and volunteering the infor- 
mation for the purpose of misleading those so interested in the inquixy. 
The offers from Sir H; Ward of a large sum of money to any one who 
would bring this man in a prisoner, or of a smaller sum to any one who 
should bring his head, or give the information necessary to his detention, 
were for a long time of no avail. The natural animosity to the British, 
and the hope of being finally able to meet the British force with a cor- 
responding adequate number of patriots, either from Greece or from the 
islands, were strong enough to overcome the great cupidity which the 
islanders were remarkable for. Meantime, the informers and the police, 
the military patrols and the courts- martial, proceeded in all directions of 
the island with their work of detection, examination, trial, and summary 
punishment* The Greek papers were long and load in their descriptions 
of the tyranny and the violence which was displayed everywhere through- 
out the country, ports, farm-houses, and small villages of Cephalonia. I 
nsoollect being actually at the house of Sir H. Ward, paying a morning 
visit, when a Greek gentleman, an inhabitant of Corfu, came in. The 
ladies of the family were seated in different parts of the room, conversing. 
The Greek count addressed me in Italian, and asked me in that language 
if I had lately been in Cephalonia, to which I answered him in the same 
language that I had not been there for some months. He then said that 
he should think it was an agreeable reflection to me, as a humane man, 
^at It had not been there lately, as '* I had not then the pain of 
being cogpaisant of the cruelties which were daily being committed there.'' 
This dialogue was only partially understood by the family who were 
present, but it showed the strong impression which existed in the mind of 
the man, he not being able even to hide his feelings in the place and in 
the presence of those who surrounded him. If such were the sentiments 
of those living far away in Corfu, and close in proximity of the seat of 
government, what must have been the animus of the inhabitants of the 
island itself, goaded on by the every day's proceeding of the British ? I 
have often thought, in reading over the description of any deed of 
agrarian outrage, or commotion of a general character, which has been 
detailed, for the information of the general public, in the newspapers that 
borrow their information from the acting authorities or police — and with 
regard especially to those horrors which take place so frequently in Ire- 

104 The Ionian Islands, 

land — that we hear only the half of the story ; that however horrid, re- 
pukiYe^ and barbarous be the conduet of the ignorant and deluded! 
perpetrators of the outrige, yet still we are not in possession of the faets 
which have stimulated their animosity, whioh have goaded them to frenzy, 
and which have worked upon their deluded and benighted minds to excite 
them to the awful resort of lawless violence. Again, the wretches^ 
ignerant aad debased, who have been led to the commiseion of snch 
crimes, have generally no spokesman who conld advocate their cause, or 
state the real nature of their feelings of hostility. I recollect living in 
the vicinity of the property of a nobleman who was^ landlord to vast 
tracts of land in Ireland, and who had unroofed and depopulated whole 
Tillages and homesteads in many parts. This nobleman n9ed to ride out 
frequently , and pass through the conntry near where hb tenantry reeided. 
He would frequently call one of the settlers to biro, and ask hint in a 
patronising way if he had a lease for the house he was in. The man 
would answer him, '' No, your lordship," and then oommence hea^Hng 
prayers and Uessings upon him for a good, kind gentleman^ He wwidd 
answer him by saying instantly, '^ I'll take it away from }'oa — take it 
away to-monrow," and leave the man confounded and dismayed. The 
next day the irafortimate settler would be visited by a bailiff, and find 
himself obliged to leave instantly. This occurred in numberless inttanoes, 
and knowing that such was the case, I ceased to wonder at the frequent 
instances of such men in other parts of the country taking the law into 
their own bands, and was even surprised, when I considered the videni 
and passionate nature of the Irish character, that some of these hapless 
victims had not waylaid or fired at this nobleman. But the prorocatioa 
of offence, the stinging sense of oppression, which works on the mind»of 
men ignorant and misguided, would never have been taken into'considera* 
tion even if they had done so. Far, indeed, would it be from justice to 
seek to palliate or to extenuate their revenge, but to find a cause for it 
would not be difficult. Neither was it difficult to traoe the vindictive 
feeing which now pervaded the minds of the Cephalonietes, when they 
saw their priests exposed to the degrading and ignoble punishment of tbi 
lash, and many of their countrymen hanged, after having imdergone a 
short trial at ArgostoH. The short, dry, summary, and careless mode -of 
trial which is pursued at a court-martial was a very unsatisfa^ory pr o ce ss 
to those who are lovers of justice, and for the purpose of meeting the 
sort of misdemeanours which the Greeks were accused of, was very in- 
adequate. The witnesses were by no means trustworthy ; n^ knowiarg 
the Greek language, tlie officers were compelled to rely npom the version 
given by a Greek interpreter to the evidence of a native, in words whose 
truth was very problematical. The hold which the chief had over the 
minds of the people was similar to that which a captain of a band of 
robbers has over his gang, and such was the state of t^e mainland of 
Greece, and some of the adjacent islands, particularly Cephalonia, ^at 
these bandits were numerous, powerful, and generally feared throughont 
the country. 

There was one captain of a gang of Kleptees, as they are called thera^ 
named Greevas, who, with his followers, had been in the habit of resort- 
ing sometimes to Santa-Maura, sometimes to Ithaca, and to other hannts 
which he had on the mainland contiguous to these islands, and who kept 

The Ionian Islands, 105 

Ae eountrieg which he visited constantly under contribution. He wm 
BOjk inimical to the English government directly, but this man Vlako was 
well known to be the deadly enemy of the British, and his life was con- 
seqaeaatly held by a very precarious tenure. The delinquents, who had 
been seized through the exerdons oi the military and the police, had been 
those implicated in the murd^ of Parker and the burning of Metaxa's 
hoHsey but all of them who had given king's evidence spoke as to their 
being instigated by this Vlako, and through their means guilt had been 
brought home to several,, who had accordingly been brought to trial and 
hanged. The men who were flogg^ were the culprits who had trans* 
grressed in the way of exciting the populace to disturbance. It would 
be tiresome and useless to enter into detail of the different facts, and to 
enumerate the different individuals who were implicated in these trans- 
gressionsi but the incessant vigilance and the harassing nature of the 
service which the troops endured were such as would remain indelibly 
imprinted in the memory of those who underwent them. The privations 
which, they su£Eered were many, the provisions very meagre which they 
oould procure. However, they were generally able to get country wine^ 
and.this beverage there is no place in the islandsi which one finds un*^ 
provided with. The heat of the weather rendered it comparatively of litUe 
consequence either to health or to comfort being housed in the dilapidated 
and comfortless farm-houses of the landholders throughout the country, 
hut the incessant change, and the marching about from one locality to 
another, was most wearing to the minds and spirits, and also destructive 
to the clothes, which the soldiers had no means of changing. 

Oftentimes after a long mar<^ when they had just sat down to enjoy 
a meal^ they were hurried away eighteen miles farther in pursuit of some 
of the : rebels, whose steps the authorities had got trace of. Several 
ludicrous mistakes and disappointments occurred to the officers who were 
engaged. in the pursuit of those rebels. One young man, who had been 
informed by a Greek of the circumstance that a rebel bad taken refuge 
in & cave adjacent to a convent where he was stationed with his men, 
went out with, three or four soldiers in pursuit of him. The Greek led 
him on forward through dells and mountain roads, by glens and stony 
passes of a moonlight night, and preceded him and his party for a journey 
of id>out four miles, when they lost sight of him; but thinking that they 
might have some chance of coming up with the rebel, they still pushed 
their course onward, and, seeing a dark object in the distance turning into 
a recess in the mountain, they hurried on to the direction where they saw 
it. When they got up to the mouth of the cavern, they found they had 
succeeded in coming in contact with a donkey. The '^ parturiunt montes 
naseitur ridiculns mus" was instant to the minds of the brother-officers to 
whom this young officer told this story when he returned to the coeveot 
which he had left that night on this strange wild-goose chase. The 
cowardly, sneaking, and unmanly manner in which the Greek islanders 
had acted, holding themselves off, and hiding when any military force 
made its appearance, and at the same time taking opportunities of wreak- 
ing their revenge when they were in overpowering numbers, exasperated 
the minds of the British against them. There was one young officer of 
a violent temper, who was stationed in a remote village of the interior, 
and his party consisted of hia captain, a doctor, and. himself^ together 

106 The Ionian Islands. 

with the company of soldiers. The officers' party were much in want of 
provisions, and one of the soldiers who had been given charge of the 
mess, and providing for the rationing to it in the couutxy, brought back 
word one day that the villagers in the adjacent town reiused to sell him 
any live stock ; that he had seen pigs there, and that they would not part 
with them for money. The young officer, hearing this, issued forth 
alone, and, going to the village, seized on a pig, which was the first one 
that he had seen, and telling the householder at whose house he found it 
to follow him into his quarters, and that he would be paid for it, he cut 
the pig*s throat and carried him into the house where tlie officers were 
staying. The captain, who was a strict disciplinarian, was so irate at 
such an undignified proceeding, that he spoke severely to the officer on 
his return with this singular spoil. The officer retorted upon him in the 
same sort of language, and the captain then not only put him in arrest, 
but sent charges against him. Even the doctor, whose risible muscles 
were not proof against the comic character of the scene, and who laughed 
and partially applauded the young officer, was involved in the misde- 
meanour, and charges were sent in against him as well as the young 
officer. They were both tried by different courts- martial. The severe 
and touchy character of the commandant oF the garrison was such as to 
render it far from his disposition to afford any escape for a youth who 
had implicated himself in any tours de jeunesse; and, incredible as it 
may appear, the two courts of military officers were occupied for a period 
of upwards of two months in examining and trying, deciding and writing 
upon, these two cases of misdemeanour. Even then the result was not 
known of the fate which awaited the officers until the proceedings had 
been sent home ; and so it was not till after three months had elapsed 
subsequent to the transaction that the young officer who had been found 
guilty of a degree of insubordination was aware that he was reprimanded 
for the same, and obliged to go into another regiment, and the doctor 
was allowed to resume the course of his medical duties, the charge which 
was brought against him being insufficiently proved. It was manifest 
that a little judicious management and some wholesome admonition would 
have been more beneficial to the service, and more effective in forward- 
ing the purposes for which officers' services are required, than the undue 
and extreme severity which prompted the resorting to the measure of 
bringing these two young men to trial. 

The grand object, also, of the military force being employed was 
marred in a great measure by the officers comprising the court being 
taken away from their active employment to officiate on the tiresome 
courts-martial, and the only person benefited was the acting judge- 
advocate-general, who earned a guinea for every day that the courts- 
martial were sitting. If the temper of the military commandant had 
been less implacable, and his judgment had been more subjected to the 
influence which lays down the precept— 

Nimirum sapere est abjectis utile nugis — 

the misfortune to the officers and the detriment to the service would 
have been avoided. But what did it signify ? No regard was paid to 
these two considerations ! They were light as compared with the im- 
portant point of soothing the offended dignity of the military com- 

The Ionian Islands, 107 

niandant! As to the prospects of the two officers, ^Uheir miseries were 
to be smiled at, their offences being so capital." 

About the middle of the summer of 1849, the efforts of the govern- 
ment, the exertions of the soldiers, and the love of money, which the 
Greek partisans possess as much as any people on the face of the earth, 
were all conducive to the great end which was so ardently desired — 
namely, the capture of the arch-traitor Vlako. It was very remarkable 
that, during the whole course of the transactions which occurred iu 
Cephalonia either in 1848 or 1849, there had been nothing like a fair 
stand-up fight between the Greeks and the military. The timid and 
faint-hearted natives had invariably lain concealed and secluded when any 
force had marched out against them, and, after their repulse at the bridge 
of Argostoli, had never dared to appear in force as opposing the police 
or the soldiers. It seems as if the undaunted character which belonged 
to the Achaians of old had completely deserted their successors in the 
present day, and nothing, save the duplicity and treachery which the 
ancient Greeks had been so much famed for, was still left to these sons 
of the same soil to indicate that they belonged to the race of which so 
many valiant d^eds are recorded. As the poet says : 

The hearts within thy valleys bred. 
The fiery souls that might have led 
Thy sons to deeds sublime, 
Now crawl from cradle to the grave — 
Slaves, nay, the bondsmen of a slave. 
And callous save to crime ; 
Without one savage virtue blest. 
Without one free or valiant breast, 
Still to the neighbouring ports tliey waft 
Proverbial wiles and ancient craft. 

Even when the malcontents who had made themselves obnoxious to the 
ruling government were seized upon by the military or by the police, no 
attempt at resistance had ever been shown. It was thus also when the 
capture of Vlako took place. A large party of police, under charge of 
an English officer, received intimation of his being in the neighbourhood 
of one of the villages. He had been incessant in his different flights from 
village to village, and, wearied and faint from want of rest and perpetual 
fatigue, he had sought shelter in a house which some spies had tracked 
him to. There, in a corner of the cottage, which, like most of the Greek 
houses, had all rooms comprised under one roof without a partition, he lay 
down and fell fast asleep. The spies came up to the police, and told them 
of what they had seen. The commandant of the party, with ten of the men, 
with their arms concealed under their capotes, came stealthfully up to the 
cottage door. It was eight o'clock in the evening. They opened the door 
with a push, and rushing straight to the pallet upon which the man was 
lying, to which they were directed by the spies, thev stood by his side. 
When Vlako opened his eyes, he found himself seized by three men, and 
looked for his firelock, which lay beside the pallet, but he saw that it was 
now no use to attempt resistance. He did not show, however, the least re- 
morse or compunction for the number of atrocious crimes which he had 
perpetrated, but even pointed to three rings which he had fixed round the 
barrel of his firelock, and said that he had done so to commemorate its 

108 A Curious Coincidence, 

having shot three men. One of these was known to be poor Captain 
Parker. Vlako was a middle-sized, athletic man, apparently forty years 
of age. The partisans and insurgents who had followed him and received 
his pay were none of them to be found now. He was 

Deserted at his utmost need 
By those his former bounty fed. 

He %vas brought to trial ; the evidences against him were numerous, and 
he paid with his life the penalty of his misdeeds. When this man was 
taken all apprehension of the malcontents ceased. They had before been 
sufficiently timorous, but now, without a leader, they were wholly con- 

Some months after his execution, I recollect seeing at Sir H. Ward's 
the firelock, marked with the three rings, which Vlako had carried, and 
which was by him when he was seized by the police. The diflferent parties 
of military who had been detached throughout the island were soon after 
this recalled, and allowed to resume their duties in the head-quarters of 
the different islands. The inimical feeling to the British was still kept 
alive in the minds of the people by the free press, and the hosts of publi- 
cations which were circulated in the Greek language throughout the 
country. The heads of the different villages, in their ballot voting, 
returned the members for the Ionian House of Assembly who were most 
adverse to the English cause, but the open demonstrations of the seditious 
and discontented inhabitants were completely hushed by the signal 
example which the government had made during the year 1849. 


All that can be said is that two people happened to hit on the same thought. 

Shskidam's Oritie. 

In our number for October last, while noticing some remarks by the 
author of " Colossal Vestiges" on the beauty of Obelisks as works of art, 
we took occasion to observe that if we had not known, from a passage in 
the book itself, that it had been planned, if not commenced, some twenty 
years since, we might have supposed it to have been written with special 
reference to the proposed monument to the Prince Consort; and we con- 
tinued as follows : 

" Even in face both of the cost and risk, we must confess that we are 
amongst those who regret its abandonment as the form of our national 
memorial. It was the Queen's first wish; and (expressed at such a 
moment) it must have been based upon some deep motive, connected 
possibly with the tastes and feelings of the Prince himself. For monu- 
mental purposes we cannot conceive anything worse than the proposed 
building.* This seems to be felt by the projectors themselves, from their 
considering it necessary to * supplement' the hall by a group of statuary 

* The Commissioners' Beport had been recently published. 

A Curious Coincidence. 109 

on the opposite side of the road. We have great respect for those who 
compose the Commission, and whose desire to do what is hest it is impos- 
sible to doubt ; but their suggestions are unsatisfactory in every way. The 
hall can never be looked at as a monument, and its cost will diminish the 
funds that were intended for a distinct and separate object. The nearest 
approach to the abandoned obelisk — though liable to some objections — 
would have been a tower of Gothic architecture,* as a shrine for the 
statue of the Prince, surmounted by a light and lofty spire." 

Now, singularly enough, a paragraph has been lately going the round 
of the newspapers (commencing with the Tim€s\ to the following effect: 

" For the purpose of deciding on the monument which ought to be 
erected to the memory of the Prince a committee of noblemen and gentle- 
men was formed, on which are to be found the names of Lord Clarendon 
and Lord Derby. The decision of this committee was to erect on the 
north side of the Horticultural Gardens, and between those gardens and 
the Kensington-road, a splendid hcdl, to be devoted to meetings intended 
to promote the interests of art and science. On the other side of the 
Kensington- road the hall was to be confronted by a group of British 
statuary, representing the Prince with, we suppose, appropriate allegorical 
figures attending upon him. The plan was not well received, and has 
now been abandoned ; and, instead of the two, a single monument is to 
be erected. It is to be what is called an Eleanor Cross, something similar 
to the Martyrs' Memorial at Oxford, or the monument erected to Sir 
Walter Scott at Edinburgh. Tlie effect of the latter monument is much 
injured by its unfortunate position, about to slip, as it should seem, down 
the side of a steep hill, and much out of keeping with the very striking 
and romantic scenery by which it is surrounded. Still, no one can deny 
to it elegance of design and much -architectural beauty. The Eleanor 
Cross which it is proposed to erect to the memory of Prince Albert is to 
be a building of much greater size And of imposing height. It is said 
that it is intended to give it an elevation of nearly three hundred feet, so 
that it will be a very conspicuous feature in any distant view of the 
metropolis. In the lower part is to be placed, properly secured from the 
effects of our moist climate and smoky atmosphere, a statue of the Prince. 
The whole structure is to be entrusted to Mr. Gilbert Scott, so that we 
doubt not that full justice will be done to the utmost demands of Gothic 

And as Mr. Scott has corrected -an error in the height, by writing to 
the editor of the Times that it is to be only one hundred and fifty feet, 
it may be supposed that the rest has been finally determined upon. 

We do not attribute the change to our own suggestion ; but we may 
congratulate ourselves that something very like the structure we proposed 
has been adopted. It is, at any rate, what Mr. Box would call '^ a 
curious coincidence." 

* Open, of course. 

( no ) 


" With my spirit within me will I seek thee early." — Isaiah, c. xxvi. v. 9. 

Eably at the dawning, 

When a misty sea 
Floats o'er vale and lowland, 

I have long'd for Thee : 
In the hush of twilight. 

As the stars decline, 
I have sought and found Thee 

With this heart of mine, 
With its want and sorrow, 

Jesu — Friend divine ! 

Early I would meet Thee 

When this world is still. 
Weary — e'en with pleasure. 

Resting — e'en from ill ; 
When the lark springs upward 

Off her dewy nest, 
Pouring the sweet tumult 

Thrilling in her breast, 
On the fragrant silence 

Of earth's waking rest. 

Early at the dawning — 

Praise ! for shade and light. 
For repose and labour, 

Fruit and blossom bright, 
For the green world's fubiess — 

Praise ! when rosy day 
Lights, among the rushes. 

All the waves at play. 
Wakes the chord thrushes, 

Charms the night away ! 

Early at the dawning, 

Jesu ! thanks for all. 
For each dreadful warning. 

For each gentle call. 
For the pleasant places 

Where thy pilgrim past. 
For what joy or sorrow 

In my lot is cast — 
So 'tis well for ever. 

So 'tis peace at last. 

( 111 ) 


It has been our province lately to remark, upon several different occa- 
sions, how widely and deeply the spirit of Reformation is spreading itself 
in France. Whether this is owing to the decline of Romanism, want of 
Titality in the Gallican Church, the progress of enlightenment, or the 
general latitudinarianism and indifference, seeking for something tangible 
upon which to rest its hopes and aspirations, it is not for us to decide ; 
certain it is, that if many distinguished politicians and literary men 
devote themselves to exposing the abuses of priestcraft, and others, like 
Salvador, dream of a Gallican Church, with an emperor for its spiritual 
head, there are also many existing representatives of the Protestant cause 
in France who are ready to lift their voices, modestly, as in the instance 
of the good old minister of Metz recording the persecutions of his Church 
under the purifying aegis of a Main tenon, or in a more striking form, as 
in the instisince of the well-known historian — ^the learned and pious de- 
scendant of the Huguenots of old — J. H. Merle d'Aubign^. The French 
people must no more be judged of, as a whole, by the superficial classes 
^-rnore especially by those who hurry on the pathway of strangers, and 
crowd its capital and public places — than must its literature by those 
numerous light publications, thrown off for the amusement of the hour, 
which have so often called down the anathemas of the more punctilious. 
Any one who has moved in good society in France knows that none are 
more austere or less frivolous. Even in Paris itself, visit certain families 
in the Faubourg St. Germain, frequent the salons of the more eminent 
literary men — ^the Guizots and the Villemains — or cultivate the friend- 
ship of the learned professors in the Quartier Latin, whether attached to 
the Sorbonne, the College de France, the Jardin des Plantes, or any of 
the other institutions that honour the metropolis of France, and not only 
will such topics as theatres, light literature, and amusements be found to 
be utterly ignored, but he will be looked upon as an unwelcome visitor 
who ventures to intrude such into conversation. Throughout France the 
same thing will be observed : there are everywhere, extending in many 
instances to the business classes, instances of which will suggest them- 
selves at once to every travelled mind, a certain number of calm, serious, 
contemplative individuals, to whom the frivolity, too much associated 
with a whole people as a national characteristic, is as foreign as it is to a 
philosophic German, an independent Swiss burgher, a haughty don, or a 
puritanical Scotchman. This more serious and enlightened class, while 
often deeply impressed with the vanities of the Gallican Church, hurt at 
the immoralities and family intrusion of the priest, and regarding Papal 
infallibility as a dogma unfitted for the day, do not fall away to indiffe- 
rence or apostasy, like the more thoughtless ; they commune within 
themselves, often more than with one another ; they seek for information 
in an earnest and a pious spirit, and their minds are everywhere open to 
a Reform, which would satisfy their conscientious scruples that there was 

* Hlstoire de la Reformation en Europe au Temps de Calvin. Far J. H. Merle 
d*Aubign^. Tomes I. et II. Geneve et France. 
May — VOL. cxxvui. no. dix. i 

112 The Huguenots of Geneva. 

in it neither the leaven of priestcraft on the one hand, nor the cold 
austerity of Puritanism on the other. 

" When,'* says D'Aubigne, " in some countries— in France, for ex- 
ample — the Protestant idea declined, the human spirit likewise lost its 
energy, dissolution invaded society once more, and that nation, so richly 
endowed, after having caught a glimpse of a magnificent aurora, fell back 
into the dark night of the traditional power of Rome, and of the dMpotitni 
of the Yalois and of the Bourbons. Liberty has never been solidly estft- 
biished except amongst people with whom the Word of Grod reigned." 

It is to such a class that the well-known and brilliant works of Merfe 
d'Aubigne address themselves. Some five volumes, of from aix hundred 
to seven hundred pages each, have already appeared upon the History of 
the Reformation in the Sixteenth Century, devoted more particularly lo 
the great epoch of Luther, and we have now before us two more goodly 
volumes of the same history, being an instalment towards the history of 
Calvin and his epoch. 

It is true that the author remarks that this latter epoch, which com- 
prises the Reform of Geneva, opening, as it does, with the fall of a bishop- 
prince, or almost a bishop-king — the downfal of an ecclesiastical state—* 
gives rise to some comparisons with actual times ; but, he says, they were 
not of his seeking. ^' The great question which occupies Europe at the 
present moment, was also that which occupied Geneva at the time thai 
we describe. But that portion of our history was written anterior to 
these latter stirring years, during which the deeply important and coai* 
plicated question of the maintenance or the fall of the temporal power of 
the popes has come, and continues incessantly to obtrude itself upon 
kings and people alike." 

There are another class of persons on the Continent — philosophers^ as 
they mostly esteem themselves — who look upon Christ simply as the 
apostle of political liberty. The history of the times of Calvin, of his 
predecessors and followers, is, D'Aubigne remarks, precisely the histoiy 
of an epoch which addresses itself directly to this class — to teach them, 
as it does, that in order to possess liberty without, we must, first of all, 
possess liberty within. In order to arrive at the enjoyment of real 
liberty, men must, first of all, learn what freedom is in the heart. To 
e£Pect this he must seek succour from one more powerful than himself^— 
from the Son of God. The work of renovation accomplished by Calria 
was, above all things, a renewal of the inward being, ere it began to eiz- 
ercise a great influence upon people. Luther converted princes into 
heroes of the faith, and most admirable were their triumphs at Aagsbutj^ 
and elsewhere; but the reform of Calvin addressed itself to the people^ 
and created martyrs in its bosom, before it gave birth to spirituai coo* 
querors of the world. Guy de Bres in the Low Countries, John Kjiox 
in Scodand, Servet in France, issued forth from Geneva, as did hosts of 
reformers in still more recent times, extending in England from the 
period of Elizabeth to that of William of Orange. 

The spirit of the Reformation in Geneva lay, as elsewhere, in salwitieQ 
by faith in Christ, who died to save us, and the renewing of the heaii by 
the word and spirit of God. But there were also everywhere secondary 
elements, and that which particularly characterised Geneva (and which is, 
therefore, propounded as more particularly deserving of the attention if 

The Huguenots of Geneva. 113 

men in the present day) was the love of liberty. Three great moTements 
were accomplished in' that city in the first half of the sixteenth century. 
The first was the conquest of independence ; the second was the conquest 
of &ith ; the third was the conquest or renovation and organisation of the 
Church. Berthelier, Fare], and Calvin are the three heroes of these three 
epopees. These three movements were all of them essential and neces- 
sary. The Bishop of Greneva was also a temporal prince, as at Rome ; it 
was difficult to carry away the crook, unless the sword was removed first. 
The necessity of liberty to the Gospel, and of the Gospel to liberty, is now 
recognised by all serious men, and the history of Geneva proclaimed the 
fact three hundred years ago. 

The liberties enjoyed by Geneva date, with alternations of despotism, 
civil, military, and religious, from the most remote* periods. They were 
at once Roman, German, and Christian in their origin. The Romans 
granted municipal privileges to one of the chief cities of the Allobroges. 
The independent spirit of the Gt>ths was there softened and civilised by 
the mild influence of the Borgundians ; the famous wife of Ciovis, 
Clothilda, carried thence the spirit of Christianity among the warlike 

Three dififerent powers came alternately to threaten tlvose ancient 
liberties. First came the Counts of Geneva, originally mere officers of 
the emperor, but who gpradually became so many independent princes. 
These feudal chiefltains took most pleatsure in their castles, leaving the city 
to the bishops, who protected it without, and administered its affairs 
within, confiscating the liberty and the property of the citizens with equal 
indifference, till, in 1124, Aymon, Count of Genevois, ceded the city 
altogether to the first prince-bishop, Humbert de Grammont. The insti- 
tution of prince-bishops, opposed alike to the principles of the Grospel and 
to the liberty of future ages, was an especial misfortune to Geneva. 
Antonio Gallenga, in his Catholic History of Piedmont (vol i. p. 258), 
places the matter differently. He says that Gerold of Geneva, having 
taken part against Conrad the Salic, about 1047, the emperor, in punish- 
ment of this opposition, placed the city of Geneva altogether under the 
jurisdiction of the bishops. 

Be this as it may, the small but united population of Geneva-^t is one 
of their titles of glory-— ^ere the first to reject that amphibious being 
called a prinee-lnshop-Hsorruptio optimi pessima — and the fall of the 
feudal-episcopal throne on Lake Leman was followed by that of others on 
the Rhine, in Belgium, in Bavaria, and in Austria, as, adds B'Aubign^ 
emphatically, ^* tlM last will be that of Rome." ^' Christianity," he also 
observes disewhere, ** ought to have been a power of liberty ; Rome by 
comipting it made it a power of despotism. Calvin, by regenerating, re- 
habititafted it, and restored to it its primary functions." 

The ambition of the Princes of Savoy, however, implicated the liberty 
and independ«tice of Geneva even more than its counts and prince-bishops. 
They set the one against the other to serve their own purposes. Peter of 
Savoy, uncle to Eleonora of Provence, Queen of England, and created 
Earl of Richmond by his nephew, Henry III., took possession of the castle 
of Geneva in 1250 by force of arms, and the power of the house was 
further increased under Amadeus V. D*Anbign6 represents the princes 
of the hottse of Savoy as liberal in Geneva merely to suit their own pur- 


114 The Huguenots of Geneva, 

poses. The *' Second Charlemagne," as Peter of Savoy was called, pro- 
mised commercial franchises in order to withdraw the people from ihe 
temporal yoke of their hishops, and Amadeus V ., " se fit liberal'' simply 
because he knew that the spirit of a people is never so surely gained over 
as by establishing oneself as the defender of its rights. Tne Romanist 
Gallenga represents the relations of the house of Savoy with the Genevese 
in an entirely different light, and he asserts that the name of Savoy 
became associated in Geneva, as well as all over Switzerland, with the 
cause of freedom ! It is manifest by the conduct of Amadeus VIII. that 
the Protestant historian places the matter in its true light. The Counts 
of Savoy, when dukes, applied for a Papal bull with which to annihilate 
those liberties which they had been obliged to tolerate because they could 
never vanquish them. It was in vain that the people objected that '^ Rome 
should not put its hands upon kingdoms." Martin V., however, confis- 
cated the city in 1418, not to the benefits of the Dukes of Savoy, but to 
that of the Roman Church, and he nominated Jean de Rochetaillee prince- 
bishop. This usurpation was renewed four years afterwards, and the 
election of their bishops taken from the people. The Hermit of Ripaille 
— Pope Felix V. — wrought this usurpation in favour of the house of 
Savoy, and according to D' Aubigne, the prince-bishops of that house, and 
their governors, " were leeches that sucked Geneva to the very marrow of 
its bones." One of them, Jean Louis, gave over the archives of the city 
to the duke his father, who removed them with the privilege of fairs to 
Lyons. It was to these fairs, the right to which was lost in the obscurity 
of time, that Geneva was indebted for its prosperity. Venice was at that 
epoch the dep6t for the commerce of the East, Cologne for that of the 
West, and Geneva for the centre. Merchants were now forbidden to visit 
the city, and Lyons was aggrandised at its expense. " Thus," says 
D'Aubigne, ** the Catholic or episcopal power, which had deprived Geneva 
of its territory in the eleventh century, deprived it of its prosperity in the 
fifteenth. The shelter given to the persecuted Huguenots, and the 
industrial activity of Protestantism, were destined to raise it up from 
the prostrate condition in which it had been laid by the Roman 

It was in vain that a reforming bishop — Antoine Champion — appeared 
in the latter end of the fifteenth century — the influence of the Dukes of 
Savoy prevailed until early in the sixteenth century — when the breath of 
Reformation which lighted up the people to liberty, faith, and morality, 
made itself felt in Geneva. Chai'les de Seysell, prince-bishop of the same 
city, who had during his lifetime supported the popular rights against the 
encroachments of Charles of Savoy, died in 1513, ot, according to the 
chroniclers, was poisoned by order of the duke. The people, instigated 
by their eminent leader Berthelier, elected the abbot of Bonmont to the 
vacant see ; the duke opposed to the nomination John, son of Francis of 
Savoy, Archbishop of Aux and Bishop of Angers, by a person of easy 
virtue, and who was hence historically known as the " bitard de Savoie. 
This illegitimate scion of a noble house was to be elected to the epis- 
copacy, upon condition of resigning the temporality to the Dukes of 
Savoy. Pope Leo X. was the more readily induced to accede to dus 
arrangement, as he was at that very moment negotiating an alliance 
between his brother Julian, general of the Papal forces, and Philiberte^ a 
princess of Savoy. Everything was soon satisfactorily arranged betwe^ 

The Huguenots of Geneva. 115 

the Pope, the duke, and the bastard, without the slightest consideratioa 
for the feelings of the Genevese. When the Swiss deputies arrived to 
urge the claims of Bonmont, the ready answer they got was " Nescio 
YDS." It was as final as the " non possumus" of our own times. Leo X. 
was not a lucky Pope. He was laying the seeds of Reformation in 
Wittemberg by the sale of indulgences, and he was doing the same thing 
in Geneva by the imposition of the " Bastard" over the scrupulous con- 
sciences of the Genevese. 

Even within Geneva itself, the popular party was equally effectively op- 
posed by the ducal and clerical, which was for the time being in the ma- 
jority. The prince-bishop elect attempted to silence Berthelier by the gift 
of the " Chatellenie of Peney" — the governorship of a strong castle two 
leagues removed from the city — while he granted a pension to the elect 
of the people, the Abbot of Bonmont. The Genevese, he used to say, 
had two marked passions, the love of liberty and the love of pleasure, and 
the principle he adopted was to make them forget the one in the pursuit 
of the other. To this effect he kept open table, and encouraged a con- 
tinued succession of feasts, balls, and banquets. The Savoyards did 
everything in their power to assist in the general demoralisation, till the 
scandals of the prince-bishop and his courtiers, as also of the priests and 
monks, and of not a few of the laity, excited strong remonstrances on 
the part of the magistrates and citizens. Berthelier, in the mean time, 
kept gaining over new allies to the cause of Geneva versus the Dukes of 
Savoy, to whom the temporalities had not as yet been made formally 
over. One of the most distinguished of these was Francis Bonivara, 
prior of Saint Victor, a little state, with territory annexed, of which the 
prior was prince-sovereign. The uncle of Bonivard, the previous prior, 
had had four guns manufactured with which to besiege his neighbour 
the Lord of Vitry, and on his death-bed repenting of his violence, he 
had requested that the guns should be converted into church-bells. 
Berthelier, however, succeeded in preventing these last injunctions of the 
old prior-militant being carried out, by providing other metal for the 
bells. " The church," he said, " will be doubly served ; there will be 
bells at St. Victor, which is the church, and artillery in the city, which 
is the territory of the church." This priory was outside the gate of 
St. Anthony, near the site of the present Observatory. Another was 
Besangon Hugues, whose whole life was devoted to the cause of inde- 
pendence and to resistance to the usurpations of the house of Savoy. 
Charles IIL had his eye upon the whole three, the affair of the guns 
having come before his council. " I shall have my revenge," he said. 
John of Savoy, as the bastard prince-bishop was now designated, seconded 
the duke with zeal. He began operations by taking away their judicial 
functions from the syndics, and casting the citizens into prison. One of 
these exploits nearly excited an insurrection. One of the most respected 
citizens — Claude Vandel — had made himself particularly obnoxious to 
the prince-bishop by his zeal in the cause of those who were immolated 
by his tyranny. He was in consequence himself seized, and led away 
by a subterranean passage to the episcopal dungeons. But Vandel had 
four sons, all occupying distinguished positions. The eldest, Robert, 
was a syndic ; Thomas, the second, was a canon, and one of the first 
priests who embraced the principles of the Reformation ; Hugues, the 
third, was ambassador to the Swiss republic ; and Peter, the fourth, was 

116 The JSuffuenois of Geneva. 

captain -general. These four brothers were not likely to allow their re- 
spected parent to be thus maltreated without an effort for his rescue. 
They appealed publicly to tlie whole body of their feUow-citiaens against 
the outrage. The council demanded that the prisoner should be deli- 
Tered up to the syndics. The prince-bishop refused, and the anger of 
the populace extended to all the pensionaries of the episcopacy. Ber- 
thelier, of whom the prelate had boasted ^' he had put a bone in Ins 
mouth to prevent his barking," tore up his letters patent as chlLtelain of 
Peney in the presence of the assembled council, and called upon his 
fellow-citizens to deliver the citizen whom the traitors had carried off. 
Bernard, whose three sons played an important part in the Reformation, 
ran to summons the people. But the prince-bishop had taken flight, 
and the episcopal council having judged the arrest of Yandel to be illegal, 
he was set at liberty. 

The temptations of pleasure having failed to demoralise the haughty 
and intelligent citizens of Geneva, it was resolved to see what superstitioa 
might do. A monk, Thomas by name, was employed to effect uiiraculoas 
cures. But Bonivard turned him into ridicule. '^ Imaginatio factt casum,'' 
he said; and he added, '' He jumps from the cock to the ass like an idiot T 
An attempt was also made to corrupt the youth of the city by de- 
baucheries, in which the priests set the example. Berthedier counter- 
acted this new means of seduction by pretending to enter into the evil 
practices himself, till it was said of him, ^* Bonus civit, raalus hoati«^!" 
But he was labouring to convert a school of tyranny into one of liberty. 
He turned the ribaldry and the jests of bacchanalian oi^gies against the 
house of Savoy and their creature the prince-bishop. 

As usual, when two parties are thus placed in opposition, a slight 
incident brought about a crisis. The gouty prince-bi^op was laid on 
a couch suffering, when he heard a noise in the street. " What is it?" 
he inquired. " A man going to be hung," replied the nurse ; " if your 
lordship was to spare him, he would pray all the days of his H£e for your 
health." The bishop, who had just had an extra twinge, etxclaimed, 
" Well, let him be set at liberty then." But this act of mercy brought 
the bishop into collision with the Savoyards. Criminals about to be 
executed had to be handed over to the Ch&telaiii of Gaillaird in Savoy. 
The liberal juris-^consult Levrier, who saw in this trifling incident a source 
of dispute between the legitimate authority of the prince-bishop and die 
usurpations of the house of Savoy, upheld the rights of the former. La 
Yal d'ls^re and two other deputies had been despatched from Turin to 
reprimand the prince-bishop. Not satis6ed with this, they attempted to 
induce Bonivard to deliver up the person of Levrier to the ducal soldiers 
at the bridge upon the Arve. The learned prior having declined the 
.service, the deputies declared they would effect nb abstraction themselvies. 
" Will you ?'* said the prior; " then I shall lay by thirty florins to pay 
for a mass for your souls to*morrow." Levrier and Berthelier, inforaica 
of the conspiracy for the abduction of the former, called together the 
men-at-arms, and the prince-bishop and the deputies had to take them- 
selves off to Turin. 

A council then assembled at this latter city to discuss by what means 
the liberties of the Genevese could be best crushed, and their most aUe 
citizens put out of the way, at the very time these citizens t^eoaselyes were 

The Huguenots of Geneva. 117 

taking steps to secure their much cherished liberties. Both sides were 
prepared to have recourse to arms. Berthelier was urged to action by 
his democratic principles, the prior, Botiivard, by his love of letters and 
philosophy. Meetings of citizens, among whom De Joye and the mar- 
tyrs Navis and Beauchet were, after those already named, the most 
zealous, were held almost daily or nightly. Their password was, *' Who 
touches one touches the other ;" and they bound themselves, if one was 
arrested, to liberate him by force of arms. Unfortunately, a spy of the 
prince-bishop's— one Carmentrant — got to be admitted to these meetings, 
and he afterwards declared that Berthelier had plotted against the epis- 
copal life; and Bonivard having jocosely said of the bishop that if he 
caught him in his fishery (they had had some dispute as to right of fish- 
ing in part of the Rhdne), one or the other would catch a bad fish, it 
was laid to hk charge that he intended to drown him. 

A certain Gros, or Grossi, judge of the three castles — Peney, Thiez, 
and Jutsy--«-had made himself peculiarly obnoxious to the liberals. One 
day (June 5, 1517) his mule came to grief. Berthelier and a few other 
icapegraces determined to have some fun out of the incident, and they 
engaged the abbot of Bonmont's fool, known as " Little John," to precede 
them, drums beating, through the streets, proclaiming that the skin of 
^^ Fane le plus gros de Geneve" was for sale. '^ Is not that the house of 
Judge Gros ?" inquired one of the bystanders. " Yes," was the reply; 
"and it is he who is ' le gros ane.* " And shouts of laughter welcomed 
the pun. The next day the judge demanded the arrest of those who 
were implicated in this buffoonery. The prince-bishop, he said, had 
alone the right to make proclamations, and it was high treason to usurp 
his privileges! Di^e Charles deemed the matter of such grave im- 
portance, that he came himself to Geneva, accompanied by one of the 
most learned diplomatists of the day, Claude de Seyssel, to settle the 
question. This De Seyssel, a learned jurist, who, we are told, had 
translated Thneydides, Diodorus, and Xenophon, justly treated the whole 
affair as a joke, and those who took part in it were dismissed with a 
i«primand, some even with presents to win them over from the seditious. 
But it was secretly resolved to get rid, at the first opportunity, of 
Berthelier, " only to secure that big partridge," said the prince-bishop, 
^ we must &r8t of all catch some Binging<-bird. Put to the question, he 
will soon implicate others." The singing-lHrd was not long in being 
found. There was one P^colat in the city, poor, for he had lost the use 
of one arm, but most joyous companion at table, and yet equally melan- 
4[ho\y in his disposition wh^i alone. Dining one day with the Bishop of 
Manrienne and the Abbot of Bonmont, both inveterate enemies of the 
|n4noe-bishop, he had exclaimed : '^ Do not annoy yourselves so much about 
the bishop's acts of injustice, non videbit dies Petri .'" (" He will not live 
M long as Saint Peter !") A common saying at the coronation of popes. 
This was reported to the bishop as attesting the existence of a conspiracy 
againat his life. Shortly afterwards some fish pies, concocted of putrid 
fish, disagreed with some of the ejHSCopal followers. It is even said that 
oae of them died» which is not impossible. The fish, however, were 
declared to have been poisoned for the especial benefit of the prince- 
bishop, and it was resolved to arrest P^colat as an accomplioe. In order 
to carry this into effect, the Abbot of Bonmont, Bonivard, and other 

118 The Huguenots of Geneva, 

liberals, were invited by the Count of Genevois to a grand hunt, and the 
bishop withdrew to his chateau of Thiez, whilst Pecolat was engaged to 
walk out with one Maule, and both were simultaneously set upon by an 
ambuscade, pinioned, and taken off to prison, the one being liberated, the 
other kept fast. The manner, however, in which the two were both 
made prisoners exonerated Maule from complicity in the affair in the eyes 
of the unfortunate Pecolat, who, on the contrary, imbibed angry sus- 
picions against his friend Berthelier. It was in this frame of mind that 
he was put to the torture. Nothing, however, could be extracted from 
him by this cruel and ignominious process regarding the double meaning 
of the " non-videbit,** or his complicity in the affair of the putrid fish, 
nor would he incriminate any of his fellow-citizens. It was only when 
pulled some four feet above the level of the ground, that sighing and 
drawing his voice, as it were, from the depths of his chest (Suspirans et 
ab imo trahens pectore vocem — Galiffe, Mat. pourl 'Histoire de G^neve)^ 
he muttered, " Cursed be Berthelier, for whom I am thus made to 
suffer!" The next day the bishop had him suspended by a rope the 
whole time that he was at his dinner, and the servants passing to and 
fro said, " What a fool you are to let yourself be thus tortured. What is 
the use of your silence ?" But at length they tied his hands behind and 
then lifted them above his head, and raised him thus with pulleys five 
or six feet above the ground. The resolution of the victim gave way 
before the frightful agony, and he said he would confess all, and truly; 
to whatsoever questions were then put to him, he answered "Yes.** This 
success encouraged the prince-bishop, and, on the 5th of August, he put 
another prisoner to the question, till the fear of being arrested and sub- 
jected to the same process spread over the whole city. The streets be- 
came deserted, and only here and there were labourers seen at their work 
in the fields. Many citizens left the town. Berthelier's friends urged 
him to do the same, but he would not stir. " Heaven," he said, ** would 
take away their power from his enemies by a miracle." At last the 
order for his arrest having been given, he was prevailed upon to withdraw 
to Friburg. The singing-bird was caught, and nearly strangled; the big 
partridge had flown away. Great was the vexation of the prince-bishop, 
while the people only laughed. 

Disguised in the costume of an usher of the city of Friburg, Berthelier 
got safe through the city gates, and his first business on arriving in 
Switzerland was to claim the aid of the Swiss in opposing the cruelties 
and usurpations of the prince-bishop, John of Savoy, and of the duke, hb 
relative, in Geneva. He addressed himself chiefly to the corporations, 
and soon won over adherents to the cause. It was at this epoch that the 
liberals of Geneva were first designated Eidesgenossen, '' the con- 
federates;" but not being able to pronounce the German word, they 
called themselves Eiguenots, which the French euphonised into Huguenots. 
So much for D'Aubign6 ; but others have derived the name from 
Besangon Hugues, who became one of the chief leaders of the inde- 
pendents. The party of Savoy were, on the other hand, designated as 
Mamluks, because as those renegades denied Christ to follow Muham- 
mad, so the party of Savoy renounced liberty in order to subject the 
citizens to a despotic authority. (Manuscripts of the sixteenth centuxy 
have it Mamalus and Maumelus.) 

The Huguenots of Geneva. 119 

The prince-bishop, proud of his exploit in torturing poor P^colat, had 
withdrawn to Thonon. A deputation, headed by D^Orsieres, a venerable 
citizen, was sent to conciliate him, but he had the old man arrested in his 
presence and cast into a dungeon. Huguenots and Mamluks alike cried 
out against this breach of faith. The citizens flew to arms and closed the 
gates. Chappuis was at this crisis sent by Charles III. to appease the 
Genevese, and, above all things, to endeavour to counteract the Swiss 
alliance. The firmness of Berthelier defeated all these projects, and 
Charles was obliged to try the effect of personal persuasion with the 
Friburgers and Bernese. The Swiss complained of the treatment of 
Pecolat and the exile of Berthelier, and the duke promised amendment. 
D'Orsieres had been set at liberty. It was agreed that Pecolat should be 
handed over from the episcopal authorities to the city syndics for trial. 
Seyssel, now Archbishop of Turin, alone persisted in declaring that a 
person accused of high treason should be tried at the capital of Savoy. 
Pecolat, in the presence of his judges, recalled the admissions exacted 
from him under torture, and being declared innocent, the episcopal judges, 
who constituted part of the;couEt, insisted upon the reapplication of the 
question, but it was in. vain, he said nothing, and the syndics persisted in 
their verdict, " N6n invenimus en eo caitsam" — we do not find him guilty. 
The Mamluks had recourse then to a diabolical subterfuge in order to 
checkmate their opponents. They declared that the once boon-companion, 
Pecolat, was a priest, and must be tried by his peers. To this effect, the 
persecuted man was once more removed to the episcopal dungeons. His 
obstinacy was attributed to his being possessed by a demon, one of 
Berthelier^s familiars, and who was supposed to reside more particularly 
in his beard. A barber was accordingly sent for to remove the prison 
growth, and leaving his razor on the table for a moment, Pecolat, who 
was afraid that his tongue might once more prove false upon the applica- 
tion of the tortures which he knew were awaiting him, made an attempt 
to remove the frail member. Physical and moral strength, however, failed 
him in the attempt, and he only inflicted upon himself a wound which 
the episcopal officers hastened to cure. The bishop himself was, however, 
indifierent to this incident; he declared that he would make him write his 
confessions under the application of the torture. 

In the mean time, Bonivard obtained from the Archbishop of Vienne, 
the primate of all the Gauls, a citation for the prince-bishop and the 
episcopal court before the metropolitan, and he got the citation served 
upon the prince-bishop himself. The latter paying no attention to the 
summons, the primate ordered him to deliver up Pecolat under penalty of 
excommunication. The penalty was actually put in force, the prince- 
bishop and his officers were excommunicated, the churches were closed, 
and the populace in revolt delivered the persecuted Pecolat from the 
dungeons of Peney. This at the very time that the Duke of Savoy and 
the prince-bishop had obtained letters from the Pope annulling the metro- 
politan decrees, and forbidding the liberation of the prisoner. The 
episcopal officers bearing the Papal decree actually met the procession oa 
its way from the castle of Peney to the city, but the people, excited by 
success, paid no attention to the summons, and the poor tortured man, 
unable to speak or to use his limbs, was consigned to the convent of the 
Cordeliers of the Rive, which was held to be an inviolable asylum, and 

120 The Hugum&ts of Geneva. 

where he received those attentions which his miserable condition fo im- 
periously demanded. 

No one embraced the liberated prisoner with more ardour than Berthelier. 
The duke had granted him permission to return to Geneva '^ in order to 
be tried'' — a process which tlie prince-bishop devoutly believed would end 
in his decapitation. But Berthelier, relying upon the Swiss alliance, was 
prepared to confront the danger. Three of the syndics, Ramel, Vandcl, 
and Hugues, were Huguenots. Berthelier presented himself before the 
whole body to be tried. The two other syndics, Conseil and Navis — ^the 
father of a martyred son — demanded that he should be first placed in 
durance and submitted to the question. Blanchet, and Andrew Navis, son 
of the syndic, who had participated in the affair of the ass*s skin, had in 
the mean time been arrested at Turin. Twice were they subjected to 
torture, but without any results. They were then condemned to be de- 
capitated and quartered. This accomplished, the prince-bishop had three- 
quarters of these unfortunate young men suspended at the gates of Turin, 
tike other quarter of each and the heads were salted, put into barrels, 
sealed with the arms of the count, brother to the duke, and sent over 
Mont Cenis. The bearers of these melancholy relics having reached the 
bridge over the Arve which separated the ducal temtories ftrom those of 
Creneva, they suspended the two heads and the arms to a walnut-tree that 
stood in front of the church of Notre-Dame de Grace. This by favour 
of the night. The next day, the first who passed the bridge carried die 
news to the citizens, who hastened in crowds to the spot« '^ It is Navb," 
they exclaimed, " and Blanchet" Their features were perfectly recog- 
nisable, and beneath was the white cross of Savoy, with an inscription to 
the effect that they were Genevese traitors. The whole city was filled with 
horror and indignation. The women wept, the men groaned in their 
anger. Navis, the father, who was serving the cause of the prince-bishop 
so well in the prosecution of Berthelier, was thunderstruck. The mother 
was in despair. To the Huguenots these two heads became the signal 
for resistance. From that time forth the duke and the prince-bishop were 
only looked upon as two tyi*ants who sought the destruction and desola- 
tion of the city. 

Berthelier went about from house to house advocating union with the 
Swbs, whilst an embassy, composed of three zealous Mamluks, was 
deputed to Pignerol, where the prince-bishop was at that time, residing 
amidst those poor Waldenses whom he detested as much as he did the 
Genevese. The only answer that the deputies could obtain from the 
prince-bishop was, that he would esteem the citizens loyal subjects if they 
would aid in putting to death Berthelier, and ten or twelve others whom 
be named. This reply was further not to be communicated to the coun<nl, 
unless they bound themselves by oath to execute the ordere which w«re 
given to them. So strange and so excessive an act of despotism made 
«v*en the Mamluks hesitate. The meeting could not bind itself to unknown 
osders, and it rose without the communication having been read. A 
oounoil-general was then summoned to receive the mysterious mandate. 
Thft great bell of the cathedral rung, trumpets sounded, and the eitiscns 
Iwioyed on their swords to assemble in the hall called La Rive. The 
aame farce was enacted, only with threats on the part of the deputies tint 
if they did not accept the terms indited by the prince-bishop, no man in 

The HuffuemtaL (^ Geneva. 12 1 

Geneva should be io safety of his life ; and with retorts on the part of the 
Genevese, that they would cast the deputies into the Rhdne if they did 
not take back their letter. It was henceforth decided that the council- 
general should alone decide upon all matters that concerned the liberties 
of Geneva. 

The cruel execution and gibbeting of Navis and Blanehet, and the 
insolence of the sealed letter, were in the nature of acts that ruin the 
cause of those who commit them. If the prince-bishop had only enjoyed 
spiritual power he would never have attempted such, but by superadding 
worldly to religious domination, he lost both-- a just punishment, D'Au* 
bigne observes, for those who forget the words of our Saviour : " My 
reign is not of this world." The struggle between the laity and the 
x^eacgy was no new thing. In the eleventh and twelfth centuries, in 
France, in Bargundy, and in Flanders, everywhere the prince-bi^ops 
and the feudal lords were opposed to the aspiration of the citizens for 
municipal privileges, or any other form of liberty and independence. 
Everywhere the cause of the first had 'triumphed, why should what had 
happened at Cambray, at Noyon, at Saint Quentin, at Laon, at Amiens, 
at Soissons, at Sens, at Reims, and at a hundred other places, not also 
take place at Geneva ? Because times and people were changed, and in 
the sixteenth century the series of defeats, the culminating point of which 
Bas not even yet been arrived at, eommenoed at Geneva. To use the 
words of D'Aubigne, borrowed again from antiquity, '' The epicurean 
hog, who sat upon the episcopal throne, at once cruel and unclean, 
trampled in the coarsest possible manner upon the most sacred rights, 
and prepared, wi^iout knowing it, for the glorious advent of the Re- 
formation in Geneva.*' 

Three hundred citizens had signed a petition for alliance with Switzer- 
land, and Hugues and De la Marc were deputed to convey it to Friburg. 
The consideration of the alliance was also brought before the council - 
general. But these Huguenots and Mamluks opposed one another with 
so much violence, that it was impossible to come to a decision. There was 
a party among the liberals themselves who were also for delay. Berthelier 
was joined by a new man — de la maison neuve — in urging action and 
decision. The town thus became divided into two parties. The Huguenots 
wore a cross on their doublets and a feather fn their hats, like the Swiss ; 
ihe Mamluks wore a bit of holly, and pointing to it would say, as the 
Scotch of their thistle, '^ Whosoever touches me pricks his fingers." 
Street fights became common, and Savoy resolved to take still more 
decisive steps. The trial of Berthelier was proceeded with. On the 
24th of January, 1^19, a verdict of ^^not guilty" was pronounced. 
Montyon, the fint syndic, a zealous Mamlnk, but an honest judge, gave 
the sentence. It waa a triumph of liberty and legality that for a moment 
compromised all the projects of Savoy. The duke resolved, however, not 
to be thus defeated. He began by sending a deputation^ ¥rho denounced 
the chief citizens as conspirators, and who thus excited the whole body of 
Huguenots against them. On the 6th of Febmsu'y, 1519, the alliance 
of Geneva with Fribui^ was carried at the council-general, to the further 
confusion of the party of Savoy. There were bonfires, shouts, processions, 
and banquets, throughout the ancient city. The Mamluks, irritated, 
began to organise themselves. They were prepared to oppose the triumph 

122 The Huguenots of Geneva. 

of the liberal and the Swiss party by force of arms. They urg^d the duke 
to adopt similar measures. The very city that bore the symbol of the 
two absolute powers on its flag — the key of the popes, and the eagle of 
the emperors — was proclaiming liberty in the State and liberty in the 
Church. All Europe began to talk about the Huguenots and the Mam- 
luks as it had once done about the Guelfs and the Gibelins. 

The duke, count, and prince-bishop regretted for a moment the ex- 
cesses to which they had committed themselves. They attempted at first 
to annul the alliance by intriguing with the Eriburgers. But the sturdy 
Swiss rejected the bribes of a corrupt hierarchy. They then attempted 
to bribe some of the chiefs of the Huguenots. The Bishop of Maurienne 
was employed on this disreputable service. It was at that time supposed 
that every man had his price. Berthelier, who was the first applied to, 
and who had so long been prepared to lay down his life for the cause of 
liberty and justice, rejected the bishop's overtures with the contempt they 
deserved, and the others followed the noble example thus set them. 

Charles HI. met, however, with greater success in Switzerland. He 
represented to the Diet that Friburg had acted in this matter without the 
consent of the cantons, and he obtained that a deputy should be sent to 
Geneva to exhort the people to desist from their enterprise. The Fri- 
burgers, however, held by the alliance, and their deputy arrived at 
Geneva at the same time as the representative of the Diet. The council- 
general was once more summoned. The answer given to the Diet was 
that they were not subjects to the duke, and that they would send 
a deputy to the cantons to attest that they had done nothing to his pre- 
judice. The alliance was persisted in with loud acclamations, and the 
deputy of Friburg assured them of the support of Berne. 

The duke no longer hesitated, then, to appeal to arms. Only he 
wished to have it in his power to say that he had a Genevese party, and 
that he interfered for its sake. To this effect he addressed himself to the 
Chapter of St. Peter, which represented Catholic interests in the absence 
of the bishop. The canons who constituted this chapter were, with one 
exception only, not Genevese. That exception was Navis, a brother of 
the young man who had been tortured, decapitated, and gibbeted. There 
were only two liberals among them — the Abbot of Bonmont, the rival of 
the Prince-Bishop of Savoy, and Bonivard, the learned and lettered Prior 
of Saint Victor. These canons of noble descent were so intoxicated with 
their importance that they were ready, like the well-known canons of 
Lyons, to claim the privilege of not being obliged to kneel at the eleva- 
tion of the '* bon Dieu," as the host is popularly called by the adherents 
of the doctrine of transubstantiation. The fat and jovial canons inclined 
their heads and bloated faces, one after the other, before the ducal pro- 
gramme. Bonivard alone raised his voice against it. He argued that 
the chapter had to deal with ecclesiastical and spiritual matters only, and 
not to concern themselves with temporalities — thus establishing a dis- 
tinction long agitated, but never yet thoroughly carried out — so great is 
the influence of the Church in all states. When the decision of the 
chapter became known, the people assembled on the Place Molard, and 
resolved to pay a visit to the canons, who, to a man, were held in con- 
tempt for the disorderly lives that they led, and to bid them concern 
themselves with their own affairs, and not with those of the state ; and 

The Huguenots of Geneva, 123 

they would have carried out their intentions had it not heen for the in- 
terference of Bonivard, to whom they appealed in their extremity, and 
who, torch in hand, opposed himself to their progress, quieting them hy 
saying that the letter refusing the alliance of Friburg had not yet been 
despatched. The canons, terrified, agreed to alter the words of tne letter, 
and said, in the quaint wording of the lime, that they were desirous of 
living under no other protection but that of God and of '* Monsieur 
Saint Pierre," and that as to the alliance of Friburg, they neither cared 
to accept it nor to refuse it. 

The duke, upon this new defeat, raised an army as quickly and yet as 
secretly as he could. He wished to act without giving time for the 
interference of the Friburgers and the Bernese. The Savoyard lords 
summoned their vassals, and the army was placed under the command of 
Montrotler, a good soldier, cousin of Bonivard. Marching by night, he 
assembled ten thousand men around Geneva, before the citizens knew 
even of their approach. Charles III. was himself at St. Julian, only a 
league from the devoted city. *' These turbulent shopkeepers," exclaimed 
some of the haughty lords, '' must be subjected with a horsewhip." No 
sooner said than done. Fifteen knights started for the city, and handing 
their horses to their valets, presented themselves before the council- 
general booted and spurred. " His highness," they arrogantly announced, 
^^ being desirous to enter the city, orders that all arms be laid aside and 
the gates opened." The Genevese senators quietly answered, if the duke 
was coming on a peaceful mission the arms might be used for his protec- 
tion. '* His highness," retorted the knights, " will come into your city 
when and how he pleases." '* Then," replied the syndics, '' we shall not 
let him come in." At these words the knights rose to a man, and said, 
haughtily, '* We shall come in spite of your teeth, and we shall do with 
you just what we like." And, stamping on the floor with their boots, 
they left the place and cantered off back to St. Julian. 

There were ten or twelve thousand souls in Geneva, including women 
and children, while the Savoyards were ten thousand strong without. It 
is not surprising, then, that besides the party that was in favour of Savoy, 
there were also many who shrank from hostilities. '* The spirit of the 
Reformation," says D'Aubign6, '' was destined to give them, at a later 
epoch, the courage and endurance that was then wanting." Berthelier 
and his followers alone held firm, and Hugues went off to claim the aid 
of the Friburgers. The ensuing day the king-at-arms, Provena of 
Chablais, presented himself before the council with a still more insulting 
message. The council held firm ; whereupon the herald cast his wand 
(gaule, the chroniclers call it) into their midst, and defied them on the 
part of the duke. The people were terrified, but the Huguenots pre- 
pared for resistance, and compelled the Mamluks to give aid. The duke 
deemed it wise, on seeing this, to temporise, and he asked to be allowed 
to enter the city with a suite of only a few hundred men. Another 
council-general was held, and the opposition party, who were in favour 
of conciliation, not gaining their point, they treacherously abandoded 
the city, and went over to the Savoyards. The canons and priests fol- 
lowed their example, and joined the duke sit Gaillard. A plot was then 
laid to let the Savoyards into the city at night-time, but it was counter- 
acted by the loyalty of an arquebusier, who, firing his piece at the 

124 The Hugumiots of Geneva, 

moment the Mamluks were about to open the gates to the enemy, 
roused the citiaEens, and the Count of Genevois and his horsemen were 
obliged to beat a hasty retreat. A herald had arrived in the mean time 
from Friburg, who recommended submission, and the duke having pro- 
mised to enter with a limited suite, and to harm neither the commonalty 
nor any individual, he was at length admitted into the city. The duke, 
as might have been expected, broke his faith. He entered the city with 
his whole army, and Geneva was delivered up to the sack as if tt had 
been taken by assault. Four syndics, twenty-one councillors, and a 
number of notable citizens, making altogether forty, were proscribed. 
Luckily, at this crisis, a body of Swiss, some thirteen or fourteen thousand 
strong, arrived at Liellins, and despatched a herald to the duke, sum- 
moning him, at his peril, not to hurt the Genevese citizens. Hugues 
had arrived at Fribnrg, and by his eloquence had won over this auxiliary 
force. It is an old and oft-tried proverb, that the most haughty ami 
tyrannical are generally the nK>st cowardly. The recreant duke, who 
had entered the city upon his *' superbe haquen^" over the ruins of the 
gates, and the valiant count upon his *' roussin" (entire horse), with 
breastplate and helmet with a great pl'ume, felt that they had acted 
without faith both to the Genevese and, to Marti, the envoy of the 
Friburgers, and they now changed their tactics, and proelmmed that if 
any one did harm to the citizens, it would be under peimlty of the ^' hart^ 
(being strangled). The Huguenots, on their side, picked up coixn^^ 
and began to ridicule the men who had so treacherously obtained po»> 
session of the city. It was Lent, and the army had to £sed upon the 
little fish now called f^ras, but a.t that time '' besolles," so the citizens 
designated this war as that of the '* Besolles" — ^a name that ever after 
remained to it. Zurich, Berne, and Soleurs decided that the afiianos 
of the Friburgers should be withdrawn if the duke, on his side, would 
withdraw his troops. He was only too happy to accept of the alternative, 
and the Savoyards left the faky with much less haaghtiDess than they 
had expected their entrance, and learing, sad to say, the plague behind 

But worse even than the plague that decimated the city vpiere the 
traitors who were within its bosom. Bonivard, who had fled from his 
pricey, which was without the city, at the approach of the Savoyards^ 
was betrayed by two friends-^tbe Lord of Voraz and the Abbot of Man- 
theron — in whom he had placed every confidence, and was imprisoned 
in the Chateau of Grolee, on the Rb6ae, aiad afterwards in the w^ 
known dungeons of Chillon* His priory was made over to the treache* 
rous abbot, wluie Yoruz received two hundred florins^ The prince* 
bishop next re-enacted the part played by the duke. He asked for 
admission for himself and suite, promismg to protect every citiaen in hii 
rights. He was allowed to enter with five hundred men-at-arms. Ber- 
thelier was at once arrested, walking in the meadows now called '* Sa- 
vcuses,'' with a pet kid in his arms, and was imprisoned in Oesar^s Tower, 
in the Castle of L'lle. The patriot was less concerned than his friends 
at his arrest He had always foretold his end, and had held by the wellp* 
known Hocatian proverb, '^Dulce et decorum pro pKtria morL" ISm 
trusted also in his Saviour, for he wrote upon the walls of his prison, 
<< Non morior sed vivaas et narrabo opeta JDomini." D'JLubig]i6> how- 

The Huguenots of Geneva. 125 

ever, — the days of Reformation not haying yet come — would almost 
deprive the patriot of the credit of faith in his Redeemer — albeit he was 
so important an instrument, in the hands of Providence, in the much- 
wanted cleansing of the worship then paid to the great apostle of liberty 
and morality. It was indeed at this very moment (1519) that the Chris- 
tians of Wittemberg were rising up against absolute power in spiritual 
things, that Berthelier was about to seal by his death the struggle of his 
Huguenot compatriots against absolute power in a temporal hierarchy. 
In the presence of death he sought for comfort in the Word of God and 
not in the rites of the priesthood, " which is the essence of Protestant- 
ism." Berthelier had also imlnbed from antiquity the notion that the 
Yolontary sacrifice of an innocent life out of love for one's country, has 
a mysterious power in ensuring its safety. But if he was willing to save 
Geneva, the Genevese were also resolved upon an attempt to save him. 
But the Mamluks joined themselves to the men-at-arms of the prince- 
bishop to prevent any attempt at rescue. Berthelier was led forth from 
the castle on the 2drd of August, 1519, and was decapitated, upon a 
little bit of land^ so protected by the fortress on one side and the Rh6ne 
on the other, that fifty men could have defended it against all the citizens 
of Geneva. Frau9ois de Temier, Lord of Pontverre, one of the most 
violent enemies of the Grenevese, who commanded at this judicial assassi- 
nation, was himself put to death, at a subsequent period, on the same 
spot. The patriot's head was, after his death, promenaded through the 
city to Champel, the ordinary place of execution, where it was gibbeted, 
and thence it was removed to the bridge of the Arve, where the heads of 
Navis and Blanchet had so long swung. The Genevese, from that day 
forth, no longer looked upon their pastor the prince-bishop as aught but 
an assassin. The waters of the Rhdne, they said, might fiow over 
that cursed spot for ages, they would never wash out the blood that 
stained it. 

A reign of terror followed in Geneva upon the execution of Berthelier, 
and all Huguenots were excluded from public offices ; but, notwith- 
standing the edicts of the prince-bishop, they still continued to hold secret 
meetings. Am^d^e de Joye, who two years previously had taken a black 
idol of wood, much venerated by the Catholics, and called by them Saint 
Babolin, and cast it among its followers, exclaiming, '' It is the devil, and 
he is going to eat you all up," was the next victim of importance; but 
hia judges, seeing in this act only a joke, connived at his evasion. Others 
were, however, lesa lucky. Bonivard relates in his chronicles that people 
w«re imprisoned, beat, tortured, and hung and decapitated, till the whole 
city was in a state of consternation. Minds became superttitiously ex- 
cited, and believed that a doom hung over the place. One frenaied girl 
ran about the streets, crying, " Le maz mugnier ! le max moliu ! le mas 
mola ! tout est perdu!" Bad miller ! bad mill! bad sheep ! The miller 
was the prince, the mill the constitution, the sheep the people 1 

But neither the spirit nor the people of Geneva were as yet extin- 
guished. The prince-bishop, who had long been struck down by disease 
and debility, was obliged to seek the warmer climate of Pigiierol, and tiia 
Huguenots, disembarrassed of their persecutors, began to raise their heads 
again. They demanded the revocation of all edicts drat were opposed to 
the ancient civic privileges from the episcopal vicar, or declared that they 

126 The Huguenots of Geneva. 

would appeal to the metropolitan of VieDne. The vicar gave way, and 
the spirits of the patriots were proportionately raised. Levrier, whose 
brother-in-law, Chambet, had been tortured and maimed, merely because 
he was a Huguenot, was charged with a mission to Rome to demand the 
deposition of the prince-bishop, but the Pope anticipated the request by 
orderiog the prelate not to return to Geneva. The Huguenots re- 
establisned at the same time their rights to vote and to election to public 
offices. The rich priests having refused to contribute their share to the 
war of the *' Besolles," and cast the responsibility upon the working 
classes, the latter demurred. D'Aubign^ will not have it that Luther in- 
terfered in any way at Geneva, save by his writings. This is doubtful. 
Bonivard avows that Luther had sent instructions to Geneva. The ques- 
tion is, were these of a practical or of a merely theoretical character? Be 
this as it may, his influence had already made itself felt in a place so well 
prepared by priestly tyranny and persecutions to receive it, and the 
egotism of the priests upon this occasion caused the words of Luther to be 
appealed to, that there was not one word in the Bible concerning the 
Papacy, and that the power of the sovereign -pastor ought not to be made 
use of to strangle the sheep of Jesus Christ, and to cast them to the 
wolves. The priests, hearing the name of Luther, organised processions 
to exorcise the arch-heretic of Wittemberg. One day that they had thus 
proceeded without the city, the Huguenots were actually on the point of 
closing the gates against them, and shutting the whole lot out of the city. 
They had learnt from Luther that " a Christian elected by Chrbtaans to 
preach the Gospel, was more truly a priest than if he had been conse- 
crated by all the bishops and the popes." The counsels of the more 
wise and moderate among them prevailed, and they did not proceed to 
such extremities. The canons, priests, and monks, however, got such a 
fright, that they consented to pay their share of the expenses of the war. 
Montheron, to whom Bonivard's priory of Saint Victor had been made 
over, did not long enjoy the fruits of his treachery. Having gone to 
Rome, Bonivard relates, some abbots, who envied his cure, invited him to 
^* a Romanesque banquet, at which they gave him some cardinal's powder, 
which purged his soul out of his body." It was with the same useful 
powder that the guilty soul of Pope Alexander VL had been expelled 
from this world. The miserable John of Savoy was at this time extended 
on a couch of death at Pignerol. His death, according to Galiffe and 
Bonivard, was a most signal instance of Divine judgment. He was 
covered with foul ulcers, and suffered horribly. He was surrounded by 
greedy satellites, who awaited his last moments to pillage him. His room 
was filled with the shadows of his victims. The cross when presented to 
him appeared as if dipped in gore, and he rejected it with horror. 
Outrages and blasphemies mingled with the froth of a moribund on his 
trembling lips. But with his dying breath he acknowledged his guilt and 
his murderous acts. 

D'Aubign^'s work is, as will be seen up to this point, a stirring tale, 
full of incidents, narrated with unwonted spirit and picturesque power, 
and we shall possibly devote a few more pages to the consideration of the 
events that preceded the advent of Calvin in Geneva — one of the great 
epochs in the history of the religious and intellectual development of the 
human mind. 



The boundless forest district which, in the torrid zone of South 
America, connects the river basins of the Orinoco and the Amazon is, 
undoubtedly, one of the wonders of the world. This region deserves, 
according to De Humboldt, to be called a Primeval, or Virgin Forest, in 
the strictest sense of the word. If every wild forest, densely covered 
with trees, on which man has never laid his destroying hand, is to be re- 
garded as a primitive forest, then, argues that great naturalist, the 
phenomenon is common to many parts both of the temperate and the 
frigid zones; if, however, this character consists in its impenetrability, 
primitive forests belong exclusively to tropical regions. (*' Views of 
Nature,'' Bohn^s ed., p. 193.) 

This is the view entertained of a primeval forest by one of the great 
authorities on the subject-— one who, of all old investigators, Bonpland, 
Martius, Poppig, and the Schomburgs, and before the time of Wallace 
and Bates, had spent the longest period of time in primeval forests in the 
interior of a great continent Although we prefer to use the term in its 
simplest and accepted sense, of a forest with which man's toil has had 
nothing to do, we may add, that in Humboldt's somewhat arbitrary defi- 
nition as to its *^ impenetrability," that this is by no means, as is often 
erroneously supposed in Europe, always occasioned by the interlaced 
climbing lianas, or creeping plants, for these often constitute but a very 
small portion of the underwood. The chief obstacles are the shrub-like 
plants, which fill up every space between the trees in a zone where all 
vegetable forms have a tendency to become arborescent. 

In these greni primeval forests man is not. *^ In the interior of part 
of the new continent," Humboldt says, in another work, ^* we almost 
accustom ourselves to regard men as not being essential to the order of 
nature. The earth is loaded with plants, and nothing impedes their de- 
velopment. An immense layer of free mould manifests the uninterrupted 
action of organic powers. The crocodiles and the boas are masters of 
the river ; the jaguar, the peccari, the dante, and the monkeys traverse 
the forest without fear and without danger : there they dwell as in an 
ancient inheritance." In fact, just as, geologically speaking, the earth 
in the epoch of the growth of arboreal ferns in temperate climates, the 
reign of huge and paradoxical amphibia, and the possible predominance 
of a hot and humid atmosphere, charged with carbonic acid, was not 

* The Naturalist on the River Amazons: a Record of Adventures, Habits of 
Animals, Sketches of Brazilian and Indian Life, and Aspects of Nature under the 
Equator, during Eleven Years of Travel. By Henry Walter Bates. Two Vols. 
John Murray. 

June — VOL. cxxYiii. no. dx. k 

128 The Primeval Forests of the Amazons. 

prepared for man, so the great primeval forests of tropical America are 
in tne present day in the same condition, in a certain sense, and, as yet, 
the habitation of the predecessor of man only — the monkey — except 
where clearances are effected. 

'* This aspect of animated nature, in which man is nothing," Hum- 
boldt goes on to remark, '^ has something in it strange and sad. To this 
we reconcile ourselves with difficulty on the ocean, and amid the sands 
of Africa ; though in these scenes, where nothing recals to mind our 
fields, our woods, and our streams, we are less astonished at the vast 
solitude through which we pass. Here, in a fertile country adorned with 
eternal verdure, we seek in vain the traces of the power of man ; we seem 
to be transported into a world different from that which gave us birth. 
These impressions are so much the more powerful, in proportion as they 
are of longer duration. A soldier, who had spent his whole life in the 
missions of the Upper Oroonoko [as De Humboldt spells the name of 
the river], slept with us on the bank of the river. He was an intelligent 
man, who, during a calm and serene night, pressed me with questions on 
the magnitude of the stars, on the inhabitants of the moon, on a thon« 
sand subjects of which I was as ignorant as himself. Being unable by 
my answers to satisfy his curiosity, he said to me, in a firm tone : * With 
respect to men, I believe there are no more above than you would have 
found if you had gone by land from Javita to Cassiquaire. I think I 
see in the stars, as here, a plain covered with grass, and a forest traversed 
by a river.' In citing these words, I paint the impression produced by 
tne monotonous aspect of those solitary regions. ** 

There is more in it, though, than appeared at the moment even to the 
philosophic Humboldt. It is the deeply humiliating sense in man that 
the primeval forest is not yet prepared to be his abode, that, except in 
the spirit of adventure or necessity, renders it so repugnant 'to him. He 
feels that it is as yet the inheritance only of arboreal man — the monkey. 

Another class of philosophers, like Buckle, have assigned the exceed- 
ing luxuriance of vegetation in the primeval forest as the reason why 
<' civilisation'' cannot gain a firm footing in a region where so much of 
labour and energy is expended in keeping down the thousands and thoiN 
sands of germs of vegetable life ever ready to dispute with man the 
possession of the soil. The expression, however, is erroneous. It should 
have been " population." There is nothing at all to prevent the highest 
amount of civilisation displaying itself in Amazonia. The great rivers 
are navigable-^open a tract in the forest, and it can be cultivated, and 
the produce elaborated by all that is most perfect in appliances and 
machinery — but the energetic vegetation opposes itself to the more 
humble settler, and hence it acts as a bar upon the spread of population, 
not of civilisation — simply as such. 

The first great feature of the primeval forest is, then, its '* impenetra- 
bility;" the second, is its non-adaptation to the development of ^e 
human species ; the third, is the exceeding energy and restless rivalry of 
vegetation. A German traveller, Burmeister, has said that the contem- 
plation of a Brazilian forest produced on him a painful impression, on 
account of the vegetation displaying such a spirit of restless selfishness, 
eager emulation, and craftiness. He thought the softness, earnestness, 
and repose of European woodland scenery were far more pleasing, and. 

The Primeval Forests of the Amazons. 129 

that these formed one of the causes of the superior moral character of 
European nations. According to this view of the case, the primeval 
forest is not only not suited for the development of man, hat is not cal- 
culated to improve his moral and intellectual faculties. How this happens 
will be best explained by an extract from Mr. Bates's admirable work 
now before us : 

^' In these tropical forests each plant and tree seems to be striving to 
outvie its fellow, struggling upwards towards light and air — branch, and 
leaf, and stem — regardless of its neighbours. Parasitic plants are seen 
fastening with firm grip on others, making use of them with reckless in- 
difference as instruments for their own advancement. Live and let live is 
clearly not the maxim taught in these wildernesses. There is one kind 
of parasitic tree, very common near Para, which exhibits this feature in 
a very prominent manner. It is called the Sipo Matador, or the Murderer 
Liana. It belongs to the fig order, and has been described and figured 
by Von Martins in the Atlas to Spix and Marti us*s Travels. I observed 
many specimens. The base of its stem would be unable to bear the weight 
of the upper growth ; it is obliged, therefore, to support itself on a tree 
of another species. In this it is not essentially different from other climb- 
ing trees and plants, but the way the matador sets about it is peculiar, and 
produces certainly a disagreeable impression. It springs up close to the 
tree on which it intends to fix itself, and the wood of its stem grows by 
spreading itself like a plastic mould over one side of the trunk of its sup- 
porter. It then puts forth, from each side, an arm-like branch, which 
grows rapidly, and looks as though a stream of sap were flowing and 
hardening as it went. This adheres closely to the trunk of the victim, 
. and the two arms meet on the opposite side and blend together. These 
arms are put forth at somewhat regular intervals in mounting upwards, 
and the victim, when its strangler is full grown, becomes tightly clasped 
by a number of inflexible rings. These rings gradually grow larger as 
the murderer flourishes, rearing its crown of foliage to the sky mingled 
with that of its neighbour, and in course of time they kill it by stopping 
the flow of its sap. The strange spectacle then remains of the selfish 
parasite clasping in its arms the lifeless and decaying body of its victim, 
which had been a help to its own growth. Its ends have been served — 
it has flowered and fruited, reproduced and disseminated its kind ; and 
now, when the dead trunk moulders away, its own end approaches ; its 
support is gone, and itself also falls." 

The Murderer Sipo merely exhibits, in a more conspicuous manner than 
usual, the struggle which necessarily exists amongst vegetable forms in these 
crowded forests, where individual is competing with individual and species 
with species, all striving to reach light and air in order to unfold thdr 
leaves and perfect their organs of fructification. All species entail in their 
successful struggles the injury or destruction of many of their neighbours 
or supporters, but the process is not in others so speaking to the eye as it 
18 in the case of the matador. The efforts to spread their roots are as 
atrenuoua in some plants and trees as the struggle to mount upwards is in 
others. From these apparent strivings result the buttressed stems, the 
dangling air roots, and other similar phenomena. 

The impenetrability of primeval forests, their non-adaptation to die 
human species, and the rivalry of vegetation, are not their only almost 


130 7 he Primeval Forests of the Amazons. 

peculiar and certainly striking phenomena. The climbing character of 
the plants and animals is equally remarkable. The tendency to climb, 
forced upon specific creations by the necessities of circumstance — the 
getting up in so dense a vegetation to light and air — is peculiarly attested 
by the fact that the climbing trees do not form any particular family or 
genus. There is no order of plants ^hose especial habit is to climb, but 
species of many and of the most diverse families, the bulk of whose 
members are not climbers, seem to have been driven by circumstances to 
adopt this habit. The orders Leguminosae, the Gnttiferae, Bignoniacese, 
Moraceae, and others, furnish the greater number. There is even a climb- 
ing genus of palms (Desmoncus), the species of which are called, in the 
Tupi language, Jacitara. These have slender, thickly spined, and flexuous 
stems, which twine about the taller trees from one to the other, and grow 
to an incredible length. The leaves, which have the ordinary pinnate 
shape characteristic of the family, are emitted from the stems at long 
intervals, instead of being collected into a dense crown, and have at their 
tips a number of long recurved spines. These structures are excellent 
contrivances to enable the trees to secure themselves by in climbing; but 
they are a great nuisance to the traveller, for they sometimes hang over 
the pathway and catch the hat or clothes, dragging off the one or tear- 
ing the other as he passes. The trees that do not climb are for the same 
reasons exceedingly tall, and their trunks are everywhere linked together 
by the woody flexible stems of climbing and creeping trees, whose foliage 
is far away above, mingled with that of the taller independent trees. Some 
are twisted in strands, like cables, others have thick stems contorted in 
every variety of shape, entwining, snake-like, round the tree trunks, or 
forming gigantic loops and coils among the larger branches ; others, 
again, are of zig-zag shape, or indented like the steps of a staircase, 
sweeping from the ground to a giddy height. 

The very general tendency of the animals that dwell in primeval forests 
to become cHmbers is as remarkable as in the plants. It must be premised 
that the amount and variety of life in the primeval forests is much smaller 
than would, a priori^ be expected. There is a certain number of mammals, 
birds, and reptiles, but they are widely scattered, and all excessively shy 
of man. The region is so extensive and uniform in the forest clothing 
of its surface, that it is only at long intervals that animals are seen iu 
abundance when some particular spot is found which is more attractive 
than others. Brazil, moreover, is throughout poor in terrestrial mammals, 
and the species are of small size ; they do not, therefore, form a con- 
spicuous feature in its forests. The huntsman would be disappointed who 
expected to find there flocks of animals similar to the buffalo herds of 
North America, or the swarms of antelopes and herds of ponderous 
pachyderms of Southern Africa. The largest and most interesting portion 
of the Brazilian mammal fauna is also arboreal in its habits. All the 
Amazonian, and, in fact, all South American monkeys, are climbers. 
There is no group answering to the baboons of the Old World which live 
on the ground. The most intensely arboreal animals in the world ar« the 
South American monkeys of the family Cebidae, many of which have a 
fifth hand for climbing in their prehensile tails, adapted for this function 
by their strong muscular development, and the naked palms under their 
tips. A genus of plantigrade camivora, allied to the bears (Cerooleptes), 

The Primeval Forests of the Amazons. 131 

found only in the Amazonian forests, is entirely arboreal^ and has a long 
flexible tail like that of certain monkeys. Even the gallinaceous birds of 
the country — the representatives of the fowls and pheasants of Asia and 
■ Africa — are all adapted by the position of the toes to perch on trees, and 
it is only on trees, at a great height, that they are to be seen. A great pro- 
portion of the genera and species of the Geodephaga, or carnivorous ground 
beetles, are also in these forest regions fitted by the structure of their 
feet to live exclusively on the branches and leaves of trees. This, accord- 
ing to Mr. Bates, who adopts the Darwinian theory, would seem to teach 
us that the South American fauna has been slowly adapted to a forest 
life, and, therefore, that extensive forests must have always existed since 
the region was first peopled by mammalia. 

Even reptiles antl insects do not abound in primeval forests so much as 
might have been anticipated. A stranger is, at first, afraid in these 
swampy shades of treading at each step on some venomous reptile. £ut, 
although numerous in places, they are by no means so generally, and 
then they belong, for the most part, to the non-venomous genera. Our 
traveller got for a few moments once completely entangled in the folds 
of a snake — a wonderfully slender kind, being nearly six feet in lengthy 
and not more than half an inch in diameter at its broadest part It was 
a species of dryophis. The hideous sucurugu, or water-boa (Eunectes 
murinus), is more to be dreaded than the forest snakes, save the more 
poisonous kinds, as the javaraca (Craspedocephalus atrox), and will often 
attack man. Boas are so common in the wet season as to be killed even 
in the streets of Para. Amongst the more common and most curious 
snakes are the Amphisboenae, an innocuous genus, allied to the slow-worm 
of Europe, and which lives in the subterranean chambers of the saiiba 
ant. The natives call it, as the Orientals would do, Mai das Saiibas, " the 
mother of ants." 

The primeval forest is also, for the most part, free from mosquitoes and 
other insect pests. It is this that, with the endless diversity, the com- 
parative coolness of the air, the varied and strange forms of vegetation, 
and even the solemn gloom and silence, combine to render even this 
wilderness of trees and lianas attractive. Such places, Mr. Bates re- 
marks, are paradises to a naturalist, and if he be of a cont^nplative turn, 
there is no situation more favourable for his indulging this tendency. 
There is something in a tropical forest akin to the ocean (Humboldt had 
made the same remark before) in its effects on the mind. Man feels so 
completely his insignificance there, and the vastness of nature. 

Some idea may be formed of the appearance of things in the low 
ground, by conceiving a vegetation like that of the great palm-house at 
Kew spread over a large tract of swampy ground, but he must fancy it 
mingled with large exogenous trees, similar to our oaks and elms, covered 
with creepers and parasites, and figure to himself the ground encumbered 
with fallen and rotten trunks^ branches, and leaves; the whole illuminated 
hy a glowing vertical sun, and reeking with moisture. 

This is not the case, however, with the great extent of the primeval 
forests — that which is truly geographical in importance, and which 
stretches many hundreds of miles in some directions without a break. 
The land is there more elevated and undulating ; the many swamp plants, 
with th^ long and broad leaves, are wanting ; there is less underwood, 

132 Hie Primeval Forests of the Amazons, 

and the trees are wider apart. The general run of these trees have not 
remarkably thick stems ; the great and uniform height to which they 
grow without emitting a branch, is a much more noticeable feature than 
their thickness, but at intervals a veritable giant towers up. Only one 
of these monstrous trees can grow within a given space ; it monopolises 
the domain, and none but individuals of much inferior size can find a 
footing near it. The cylindrical trunks of these larger trees are gene- 
rally about twenty to twenty-five feet in circumference. Von Martins 
mentions having measured trees in the Para district which were fifty to 
sixty feet in girth at the point where they become cylindrical. The 
height of the vast column-like stems is not less than a hundred feet 
from the ground to their lowest branch. The total height of these trees, 
stem and crown together, may be estimated at from a hundred and eighty 
to two hundred feet, and where one of them stands, the vast dome of 
foliage rises above the other forest trees as a domed cathedral does 
above the other buildings in a city. The gallinaceous birds of the forest, 
perched on these domes, are completely out of reach of an ordinary 

A very remarkable feature in these trees is the growth of buttress- 
shaped projections around the lower part of their stems. The spaces be- 
tween these buttresses, which are generally thin walls of wood, form 
spacious chambers, and may be compared to stalls in a stable : some of 
them are large enough to hold half a dozen persons. The purpose of 
these structures is as obvious, at the first glance, as that of the similar 
props of brickwork which support a high wall. They are not peculiar to 
one species, but are common to most of the larger forest trees. Their 
nature and manner of growth are explained when a series of young trees 
of difierent ages is examined. It is then seen that they are the roots 
which have raised themselves ridge-like out of the earth ; gprowing gra- 
dually upwards as the increasing height of the tree required augmented 
support. Thus they are plainly intended to sustain the massive crown 
and trunk in these crowded forests, where lateral growth of the roots in 
the earth is rendered difficult by the multitude of competitors. 

Many of the woody lianas suspended from trees, it is also to be ob- 
served, are not climbers, but the air roots of epiphytous plants ( Aroides), 
whose home is at the top of the forest, in the air, and has na conn^doa 
with the soil below — a forest above a forest. The epiphytes sit on the 
strong boughs of the trees above, and hang down straight as plumb-lifies. 
Some are suspended singly, others in leashes; some reach halfway to the 
ground, and others touch it, ultimately, and then strike their rootlets 
into the ground. 

The underwood of the primeval forest varies much in different pkces ; 
at times it is composed mainly of younger trees of the same species as 
their taller parents ; at others, of palms of many species, some of them 
twenty to thirty feet in height ; others small and delicate, with stems flo 
thicker than a finger ; then, again, of a most varied brushwood, or ei 
striving interlacing climbing lianas. Tree ferns belong more to hilly 
regions and to the forests of the Upper Amazons. Of flowers th«re aie 
few. Orchids are very rare in the dense forests of the low hinds, and 
what flowering shrubs and trees there are, are inconspicuous. Flower- 
firequentiDg insects are, in consequence, also rare in tiie forest. The 

The Primeval Forests of the Amazons. 133 

forest bees, belonging to the genera Melipona and Euglossa, are more 
frequently seen feeding on the sweet sap which exudes from the trees, or 
on the excrement of birds on leaves, than on flowers. 

The annua], periodical, and diurnal cycle of phenomena, in the primeval 
forest, are all worthy of notice. As in all intertropical regions, the season 
is pretty nearly always the same, and there is no winter and summer ; the 
periodical phenomena of plants and animals do not take place at about the 
same time in all species, or in the individuals of any given species, as they 
4o in temperate countries. Of course there is no hybernation, nor, as 
the dry season is not excessive, is there any estivation, as in some tropical 
countries. Plants do not flower or shed their leaves, nor do birds moult, 
pair, or breed simultaneously. In Europe, a woodland scene has its 
spring, its summer, its autumnal, and its winter aspects. In the equato- 
rial forests the aspect is the same, or nearly so, every day in the year — a 
circumstance which imparts additional interest to the diurnal cycle of 
phenomenal-budding, flowering, fruiting, and leaf-shedding, are always 
going on in one species or another. The activity of birds and insects 
proceeds without interruption, each species having its own separate times. 
The colonies of wasps, for instance, do not die off annually, leaving only 
the queens, as in cold climates ; but the succession of generations and 
colonies goes on incessantly. It is never either spring, summer, or 
autumn, but each day is a combination of all three. With the day and 
night always of equal length, the atmospheric disturbances of each day 
neutralising themselves before each succeeding mom ; with the sun in i^ 
course proceeding midway across the sky, and the daily temperature the 
same within two or three degrees throughout the year, how grand in its 
perfect equilibrium and simplicity is the march of Nature under such 
peculiar circumstances 1 

At break of day the sky is, for the most part, cloudless. The ther- 
mometer ranges from 72 to 73 deg. Fahr., which is not oppressive. The 
heavy dew, or the previous night's rain, which lies on the moist foliage, 
is quidcly dissipated by the glowing sun, which rising straight out of the 
east, mounts rapidly towards the zenith. All nature is refreshed, new 
leaf and flower- buds expanding rapidly. Some mornings a single tree 
will appear in flower, amidst what was the preceding evening a uniform 
mass of green forest — a dome of blossom suddenly created as if by magic. 
The birds all come into life and activity, and the shrill yelping of the 
toucans makes itself more especially heard. Small flocks of parrots takd 
to wing, appearing in distinct relief against the blue sky, always two by 
two, chattering to each other, the pairs being separated by regular in* 
tervals ; their bright colours, liowever, not apparent at that height. The 
only insects that appear in great numbers are ants, termites, and social 
wasps ; and in the open grounds, dragon-flies. 

The heat increases rapidly up to two o'clock, when the thermometer 

. attains an average of from 92 to 93 deg. Fahr., and by that time eveiy 

▼oioe of mammal or bird is hushed ; only on the trees the harsh whirr of 

the cicada is heard at intervals. The leaves, which were so moist and 

■ fresh in eariy morning, become lax and drooping ; the flowers shed their 

petals. The Indian and mulatto inhabitants of the open palm*thatched 

bats are either asleep in their hammocks or seated on mats in the shade, 

. too langaid even to talk. On most days in June and July a heavy showar 

134 The Primeval Forests of the Amazons, 

falls, somedmes in the afternoon, prodacing a most welcome coolness. 
The approach of the raiu-clouds is interesdng to observe. First the cool 
aea-breeie, which commenced to blow about ten o'clock, and whi<^ had 
increased in force with the increasing power of the sun, would flag, and 
finally die away. The heat and electric tension of the atmosphere then 
becomes almost insupportable. Languor and uneasiness s^ae on eveiy 
one ; even the deniiens of the forest betraying it by their motions. White 
clouds appear in the east, and gather into cumuli, with an increasmg 
blackness along their lower portions. The whole eastern horiaoa becomes 
almost suddenly black, and this spreads upwards, the sun at length be- 
coming obscured. Then the rush of a mighty wind b heard throng^ the 
forest, swaying the tree-tops ; a vivid flash of lightning bursts forth, then 
a crash of thunder, and down streams the deluging rain. Sndi storms 
soon cease, leaving bluish-blade motionless clouds in the sky until night 
Meantime all nature is refreshed ; but heaps of flower petals and fidlen 
leaves are seen under the trees. Towards evening life revives again, and 
the ringing uproar is resumed from bush and tree. The following mom* 
ing the sun lises in a cloudless sky, and so the cycle is completed ; spring, 
summer, and autnnm, as it were, in one tropical day. The days are, more 
or less, like this throughoat the year. A little dil^renee exists between 
the dry and wet seasons ; hot generally the dry season, whidi lasts from 
July to December, is varied with showers, and the wet from January to 
Jnne, with sunny days. 

We olVen read, in books of travels, of the silence and gloom of the 
primeval fewest. They are — Mr. fiatcs adds his testimony to the fact— 
realities, and the impression, he says^ deepens on a longer aeqnaintance. 
Tlw few sounds of binls are of that pensive or mysterious ch ar ac t er wliidi 
intensifies the feelii^ of solitude rathnr than imparts a sense of life and 
cheevfiifaiess. Soneiimes, in the midst of the stillness, a sodden yril or 
scream will startle one ; this co oi ej from some ddSnieelcss fimit-eating 
animal, which is poonced upon by a tiger-eat or stcaldrr hoa-eoostricfcor. 
Mocning and evening the howhng monkeys make a most feaifiil and 
harrowing noise* under which it is difficnh to keep up one's baoyancy of 
spirit. The leehng of inhospitable wildness, whieh the finest is calmhtrd 
to inspire^ is inncascd tenfoii ander this fcaifu i npioar. O&ea, even in 
the sttU hour of mid-day^ a wdden crash will be heard, icaoandii^ a£ff 
throngh the wUdemcss^ as soose great hoo^ or cncife tree &lls to the 
groond. There aicv besides, many SMuads which it is impmirihk to ac- 
cowat fi)r. Mr« Baifees iMad the natives, geQeraOy, as BMch at a has in 

dus respect as hnaselE. o j^- -I-j r^ ^rinl Viku rhn rlang rf r 

iron bar against a haid» hellow tree^ or a piercing err reads ^e air; 
^Mseare not repeo^ted, and the saecce<hng silence tea^* to hc^h te a the 
annleasaat iaipfossioa which they aake oa the miad. 

With the aatives it is always the "^ Campca^^ the wifid ihm, or Spint 
of ^ Femst, whieh prodeees aU noaes thsy are andbk so srronat fiir. 
Myths aie the lade dM«Nnes whieh manfri ad>.la the iaiuMy ef ka o al ed g e, 
ia^ieat to exphaa nalani phifaraiiwni TW "^ CasufBa^'k a l ataAaieas 
h eio g> whoso attiihat t q aie aaeefftHa^ fiv ther varj ■ ■ ' T i n to kicafifef. 
^\ Bii liwm he b described »a kiad e£ oraa-ataa, hekg i m e i eJ aith hMg 
ih a mf haMr> and hviny ia trees. At oshars heisssiki tohasadoeeafak, 
sad TWh^ led fiMa. He !«» a witir aal chikiRa, 

The Primeval Forests oftlie Amazons. 135 

known to come down to the ro^as to steal the mandioco. " At one time," 
Mr. Bates relates, *' I had a Mameluco (cross-breed) youth in my service, 
whose head was full of the legends and superstitions of the country. He 
always went with me into the forest ; in fact, I could not get him to go 
alone, and whenever we heard any of the strange noises mentioned above, 
he used to tremble with fear. He would crouch down behind me, and 
beg of me to turn back. He became easy only after he had made a 
charm to protect us from the Curupira. For this purpose he took a 
young palm-leaf, plaited it, and formed it into a ring, which he hung to 
a branch on our track." 

With all these drawbacks, there is plenty, in the contemplation or 
exploration of the primeval forest, to counteract any unpleasant impres- 
sion which these various phenomena, and especially the reckless energy 
of the vegetation, might produce. There is the incomparable beauty 
and variety of the foliage, the vivid colours, the richness and exuberance 
everywhere displayed, which makes the richest woodland scenery in 
northern Europe a sterile desert in comparison. But it is especially the 
enjoyment of life manifested by individual existences which compensates 
for the destruction and pain caused by the inevitable competition. Al- 
though thb competition is nowhere more active, and the dangers to 
which each individual is exposed nowhere more numerous, yet nowhere is 
this enjoyment more vividly displayed. If vegetation had feeling, its 
vigorous and rapid growth, uninterrupted by the cold sleep of winter, 
would, one would think, be productive of pleasure to its individuals. 

In animals, the mutual competition may be greater, the predacious 
species more constantly on the alert than in temperate climates ; but 
there is, at the same time, no severe periodical struggle with inclement 
seasons. In sunny nooks, and at certain seasons, the trees and the air 
are gay with birds and insects, all in the full enjoyment of existence; 
the warmth, the sunlight, and the abundance of food producing their 
results in the animation and sportiveness of the beings congregated 
togetlier. We ought not to leave out of sight, too, the sexual decora- 
tions — the brilliant colours and ornamentation of the males, which, 

• although existing in the fauna of all climates, reach a higher degree of 
perfection in the tropics than elsewhere. This seems to point to the 
pleasures of the pairing seasons. '' I think," Mr. Bates remarks upon 
this, *' it is a childish notion tltat the beauty of birds, insects, and other 
creatures is given to please the human eye. A little observation and 
reflection show that this cannot be the case, else why should one sex only 
be richly ornamented, the other clad in plain drab and grey ? Surely, 
rich plumage and song, like all the other endowments of species, are given 
them for their own pleasure and advantage. This, if true, ought to 
enlarge our ideas of the inner life and mutual relations of our humbler 

Such, then, are the main and leading features of the primeval forest : 
The impenetrability of this ** foret vierge" par excellence; its non-adapta- 
bility to human existence; the rivalry of vegetation ; the climbing plants 
and animals ; the few insects, and especially the freedom from mosqui- 
toes ; the marsh forest as contradistinguished from the upland forest ; 
the colossal trees with their huge buttresses and pendent air-plants (a 

.forest oa a forest); the various underwood and struggling lianas; the 

136 The Primeval Forests of the Amazons. 

absence of flowers; the unvarying character of the annual, periodical, 
and diurnal cycle of phenomena ; the silence and the gloom brdcen by 
mysterious and hitherto unexplained sounds ; and the sources of enjoy- 
ment to be derived from the beauty and variety, richness and exuberance, 
and the vivid sense of existence with which all living creatures are 

But there are also other and various phenomena which belong to the 
details of the same extensive regions, and which enter more particularly 
into a narrative of local explorations. Mr. Bates arrived with Mr. 
Wallace at Para on the 28th of May, 1848. This city is hemmed in by 
the perpetual forest on all sides landwards, but the white buildings roofed 
with red tiles, the numerous towers and cupolas of churches and convents, 
the crowns of palm-trees reared above the building, all sharply defined 
against the clear blue sky, give an appearance of lightness and cheerfal- 
ness which is most exhilarating. There are also picturesque country- 
houses to be seen scattered about, half buried in luxuriant foliage. On 
landing, however, the hot, moist-, mouldy air, which seemed to strike from 
the ground and walls, reminded our explorer of the atmosphere of the^ 
tropical stoves at Kew. The merchants and shopkeepers dwelt in taD, 
gloomy, convent-looking buildings near the port ; the poorer class, Euro- 
peans, negroes, and Indians, with an uncertain mixture of the three, in 
houses of one story only, of an irregular and mean appearance. Here, 
were idle soldiers, dressed in shabby uniforms, carrying their muskets 
carelessly over their arms ; there, were priests, and negresses with red 
water-jars on their heads, and sad-looking Indian women canying tiieir 
naked children astnde on their hips. Amongst the latter were several 
handsome women, dressed in a slovenly manner, barefoot or shod in loose 
slippers, but wearing richly decorated earrings, and round their neeks 
strings of very large gold beads. They had dark expressive eyes, and 
remarkably rich heads of hair. *' It was a mere fancy," Mr. Bates says, 
** but I thought the mingled squalor, luxuriance, and beauty of these 
women were pointedly in harmony with the rest of the scene, so striking 
in the view was the mixture of natural riches and human poverty." 

The houses were mostly in a dilapidated condition, and signs of indo- 
lence and neglect were everywhere visible. The wooden palings which 
surrounded the weed-grown gardens were strewn about broken ; and 
hogs, goats, and ill-fed poultry wandered in and out through the gape. 
But amidst all, and compensating every defect, in the eyes of a nata- 
ralist, rose the overpowering beauty of the vegetation. Mangoes, 
oranges, lemons, dates, palms, bananas, and pine-apples are among die 
common fruits. There were also all kinds of noises by day and by night, 
cicadas, crickets, and grasshoppers rivalling the plaintive hooting of tree- 
frogs. This uproar of life never ceases, night nor day, and is one of the 
peculiarities of a Brazilian climate. The stranger becomes accustomed 
to it after a time ; but Mr. Bates says that, after his return to England, 
the death-like stillness of summer days in the country appeared to him 
as strange as the ringing uproar did on his first arrival at Para. 

The first walks were naturally directed to the suburbs otPara, through 
avenues of silk and cotton trees, cocoa-nut palms, and almond-trees. 
Much was found to interest our naturalists in their first explorations, the 
more especially as the species of animals and plants differed widdy vx 

The Primeval Forests of the Amazons. 137 

ihe open country from what are met with in the dense primeval forests. 
Parroqoets, humming-birds, vultures, flycatchers, finches, ant-thrushes^ 
tanaeers^ japirus, and other birds abounded. The tanagers represent 
our nouse sparrows. Geckos and other lizards are met with at every 
step. The gardens afforded fine sfaowy butterflies and other insects. 
The most remarkable and obnoxious of this tribe were, however, the 
ants. Of these, two species make themselves more particnlariy ob- 
noxious. One of these is a giant, an indi and a quarter in length, and 
stout in proportion. The other is the saiiba — the pest of Branl — whose 
underground abodes are very extensive. The Rev. H. Clark has related 
that the saiiba of Rio de Janeiro has excavated a tunnel under the bed 
of the river Parahyba, at a place where it is as broad as the Thames at 
London-bridge. These are the Brunels of the insect world. Besides 
injuring and destroying young trees, the saiiba ant is most troublesome 
to the inhabitants, from its habit of plundering the stores of provisions in 
houses at night. 

Mr. Bates speaks of Para— albeit a tropical city — as very healthy. 
English residents, who had been established there twenty or thirty years, 
looked almost as fresh in colour as if they had never left their native 
country. " The equable temperature, the perpetual verdure, the coolness 
of the dry season when the sun's heat is tempered by the strong sea- 
hreeaes, and the moderation of the periodical rains, make," he says, '* the 
climate one of the most enjoyable on the face of the earth." It is, how- 
ever, exposed to fearful attocks of epidemics. 

The original Indian tribes of the district are now either civilised, or 
have amalgamated with the white and negro immigrants. Their distin- 
g^uishing tribal names have long been forgotten, and the race bears now 
the general appellation of Tapuyo, which seems to have been one of the 
names of the ancient Tupinambas. The Indians of the interior, still re- 
maining in the savage state, are called by the Brazilians, Indios or 
Gentios (heathens). All the semi-civilised Tapuyos speak the Lingoa 
Geral — a language adapted by the Jesuit missionaries from the original 
idiom of the Tupinambas. The language of the Guaranis, living on the 
Paraguay, is a dialect of it, and hence it is called by philologists the 
Tupi-Gruarani language ; printed grammars of it are always on sale at. 
the shops of tlie Para booksellers. The fcKit of one language having been 
8p<^en over so wide an extent of country as that from the Amazons to 
Paraguay, is quite an isolated one, and points to considerable migrations 
of the Indian tribes in former times. At present the languages spoken 
by neighbouring tribes on the banks of the interior rivers are totally dis- 
tinct ; on the Juara, even, scattered hordes belonging to the same tribe 
are not able to understand each othor. 

The mixed breeds, which now form, probably, the greater part of the 
population of the province of Para, have each a distinguishing name. 
Mamelttco denotes the ofBspring of White with Indian ; Mulatto, that of 
White with Negro; Cafuzo, the mixture of the Indian and Negro ; Curi- 
booo, the cross between the Cafuzo and the Indian ; Xibaro, that between 
the Cafuzo and Negro. These crosses are seldom, however, well demar- 
cated, and all shades of colour exbt ; the names are generally only 
applied approximatively. The term Creole is confined to negroes bom 
in the country. Trade and planting is chiefly in the hands of the 


138 The Primeval Forests of the Amazom. 

whites, the half-breeds constitute the traders, the negroes the field 
labourers and porters, the Indians the watermen. Amusingly enough^ 
there are Gallegos, or Gallican water-carriers, in Para, as well as in 
Oporto and Lisbon. 

The semi-aquatic life of the people is one of the most interesting fea- 
tures of the country. The montaria, or boat of five planks, takes the 
place of the horse, mule, or camel of other regions. Almost every fiimily 
has also an igarite, or canoe, with masts and cabin. Our traveller's first 
experiences with the montaria was not happy. He got upset, and had 
to run about naked whilst his clothes were being dried on a bush. Mar- 
mosets, a family of monkeys, small in size, and more like squirrels than 
true monkeys in their manner of climbing, are common in Para, and are 
often seen in a tame state in the houses of the inhabitants. Many other 
species of monkeys are also kept tame. We have seen a French sketch 
of Para which has a monkey at every door. 

In August, 1848, Messrs. Bates and Wallace started on an excursion 
up the Tocantins, a vast tributary to the Para river, which is ten miles 
in breadth at its mouth, and has been compared by Prince Adalbert of 
Prussia to the Ganges. Unfortunatel}', the utility of this fine stream is 
impaired by the numerous obstructions to its navigation in the shape of 
cataracts and rapids, which commence about a hundred and twenty 
miles from Cameta — a town of some importance, pleasantly situated on 
the left bank of the river some twenty miles from its embouchure. The 
river at that place is only five miles in width, and the broad expanse of 
dark green waters is studded with low, palm-clad islands. There are 
towns, villages, and large planters' establishments along the banks. The 
inhabitants are chiefly Mamelucos, showing that the mixed race thrives 
best in this climate, and they lead an easy, lounging, semi-arophibious 
kind of life. There is, says Mr. Bates, a free, familiar, pro bono publico 
style of living in these small places, which requires some time for a 
European to ^11 into. People walk in and out of the houses as they 
please. There is, however, a more secluded apartment, where the female 
members of the families reside. These Mamelucos are, however, by no 
means ignorant, and there is many a classical library in the mud-plastered 
and palm-thatched huts on the banks of the Tocantins. Higher up the river 
they met with families of tawny white Mamelucos encamped in the woods, 
to enjoy the cooler air and fresh fish. When we say encamped, their 
hammocks were slung between the tree trunks, and the litter of a 
numerous household lay scattered about. They had even their pet 
animals with them, and they pic-nic thus for three months at a time, the 
men hunting and fishing for the day's wants. On the 16th of September 
our travellers arrived at the first rapids, beyond which the river became 
again broad (it was about a mile at the rapids) and deep, and the scenery 
was beautiful in the extreme. They persevered up to the second falls at 
Arroyos, where the bed of the river, about a mile wide, is strewn with 
blocks of various sizes, and the wildness of the scene added to the roar of 
the rapids was very impressive. The descent by which they exchanged 
the dry atmosphere, limpid waters, and varied scenery of the upper 
river, for the humid fiat region of the Amazons valley, was efiected 
without any particular incidents. One day, when they were running 
their montaria to a landing-place, they saw a large serpent on the trees 

The Primeval Forests of the Amazons. 13& 

overhead ; the boat was stopped just in the nick of time, and the reptile 
brought down with a charge of shot At the mouth of the TocantinSi 
numbers of fresh-water dolphins were rolling about in shoaly places. 
There were two species : one, the Tucuxi, rises horizontally, showing 
£rst its back fin, draws an inspiration, and then dives gently down, head- 
foremost ; the other, the Bouto, or porpoise, rises with its head upwards, 
it then blows, and immediately afterwards dips, head downwards, its back 
curving over. It seems thus to pitch head over heels. There is nothing 
that speaks more eloquently of the vast size of the ^^ Queen of [Rivers'* 
than the presence of these fresh-water dolphins and porpoiies. Both 
species are exceedingly numerous throughout the Amazons and its larger 
tributaries, but they ai'e nowhere more plentiful than in the shoaly water 
at the mouth of the Tocantins, especially in the dry season. In the 
Upper Amazons, a third pale flesh-coloured species is also abundant. 
With the exception of a species found in the Ganges, all other varieties 
of dolphin and porpoises inhabit exclusively the sea. In the broader 
parts of the Amazons, from its mouth to a distance of fifteen hundred 
miles in the interim, one or other of the three kinds here mentioned are 
always heard rolling, blowing, and snorting, especially at night, and 
these noises contribute much to the impression of sea-wide vastness and 
desolation which haunts the traveller. Besides dolphins, porpoises, river 
cows, and anacondas in the water, frigate birds and fluviatile gulls and 
terns in the ur are characteristic of the same great river. Flocks of the 
former were seen on the Tocantins hovering above at an immense 

Mr. Bates stayed some time, at an after period, at Cameto, the chief 
produce of which are cacao, india-rubber, and Brazil nuts, and the popu- 
lation about five thousand. The inhabitants are almost wholly of a 
hybrid natuve. The Portuguese settlers were nearly all males, the Indian 
women were good-looking, and made excellent wives; so the natural 
result has been, in the course of two centuries, a complete blending of the 
two races. The lower classes are as indolent and sensual as in other 
parts of the province, a moral condition not to be wondered at in a 
country where perpetual summer reigns, and where the necessaries of life 
are so easily obtained. But they are light-hearted, quick-witted, commu- 
nicative, and hospitable. The forest here is traversed by several broad 
roads, which pass generally under shade, and part of the way through 
groves of coffee and orange-trees, fragrant plantations of cacao, and tracts 
of second-growth woods. The houses along these beautiful roads belong 
chiefly to Mameluco, mulatto, and Indian families, each of which has its 
own plantation. Besides the main roads, there are endless by-paths which 
thread the forest, and communicate with isolated houses. Along these 
the traveller may wander day after day without leaving the shade, and 
everywhere meet with cheerful, simple, and hospitable people. 

Mr. Bates had an opportunity here of verifying a fact in natural history 
which has been doubted. He detected a large hairy spider in the act of 
disposing of two small birds — finches-— which he had caught in his dense 
white web. The hairs with which these bird-killing spiders are clothed 
come off when touched, and cause a peculiar, and our author says from 
sad experience, an almost maddening irritation. One day he saw some 
children with one of these monster spiders secured by a cord round its 

140 The Primeval Forests of the Amazons. 

waist, by which they were leading it about the house as they would a 
dog ! There were only two monkeys near Cameta : the Pithecia satana^ 
a large species, clothed with long brownish black hair, and the tiny white 
and rare Midas argentatus, which, running along a branch, looked like 
white kittens. There were plenty of humming-birds ; and Mr. Bates says 
there was no need for poets to invent elves and gnomes whilst Nature 
furnishes us with such marvellous little sprites ready to hand. 

Among other excursions made in the province of Para was one to 
Caripi, a Scotch gentleman's establishment in a region once the centre of 
flourishing estates, but which have now relapsed into forest in consequence 
of the scarcity of labour and diminished enterprise. Mr. Bates was mxuk 
troubled here with blood- sucking bats, which got into his hammock and 
bit him on his hip. A feline animal called the Sassu-arana, or £ELlse deer, 
from its colour, was also met with at this spot. The great ant-eater was 
likewise not uncommon. It was killed for the sake of its flesh, whi<^ is 
something like goose in flavour ; sometimes, however, it would in its turn 
nearly kill the dogs that hunted it. It seems a pity to destroy this useful 
animal, where the ants are the pests of the country. There are at least 
four species, two of which are very small, and essentially arboreal. The 
great banded and maned ant-eater is the only ground species, just as the 
megatherium was the only ground species of the allied g^up of sloths, 
which are still more exclusively South American forms than ant^«aters» 
Humming-birds abounded in the orange-groves, and Mr. Bates several 
times shot by mistake a bird hawk-moth instead of a bird. It was only 
after many days' experience, he says, that he learnt to distinguish one 
from the other when on the wing. This resemblance, which is the sub- 
ject of a curious illustration in Mr. Bates's work, has attracted the notice 
of the natives, all of whom, even educated whites, firmly believe that one 
is transmutable into the other. The resemblance is certainly remarkable ; 
but there is nothing more in it. The analogy between the two creatures 
has been brought about, probably, by the similarity of their habits — bodi 
poising themselves before a flower whilst probing it with their proboscis. 
Mr. Gould relates that he once had a stormy altercation with an English 
gentleman, who affirmed that humming-birds were found in England, for 
he had seen one flying in Devonshire ; meaning thereby the humming^ 
bird hawk-moth, of which we have one well-known indigenous species. 

Snakes abounded in this region ; many of the species were arboreid, 
and sometimes looked like the flexuous stem of a creeping plant endowed 
with life, and threading its way amongst the leaves and branches — ani* 
mated lianas. It was rather alarming, in entomologising about the 
trunks of trees, to suddenly encounter, on turning round, a pair of glittep^ 
ing eyes and a forked tongue within a few inches of one's head. Water- 
snakes will also sometimes take the bait intended for a flsh, and the 
Amazonian angler oflien brings an unwelcome visitor to the surface. The 
extraction of the hook, which is generally swallowed, as with an eel, is 
an operation that is, we suppose, left to some bystander. 

A curious question in connexion with the acchmatisation and domestica- 
tion of animals — a subject which occupies the attention of Europe, as vdl 
as of Australia and other countries, in the present day — presented itself at 
Murucupi, a creek where Indians and half-breeds had lived for many 
generations in perfect seclusion from the rest of the world, the place being' 

The Primeval Forests of the Amazmis. 141 

Utile known or frequented. The spot is described, as far as scenery is 
concerned, as exquisitely beautiful. Then, again, the inhabitants had 
groves of bananas, mangoes, cotton, palm-trees, papaws, coffee, and sugar. 
They had also plots of Mandisca and Indian corn. But animal food is 
as much a necessary of life in this exhausting climate as it is in Europe. 
Now these people nave no idea of securing a constant supply of meat by 
keeping cattle, sheep, or hogs, nor is there any lack of tameable animals 
fit for human food in the Amazonian forests. There are the tapir, the 
paca, the cutia, and the curassow turkeys; but the management of 
domestic animals is unsuited to their tastes, and such, says Mr. Bates, is 
the inflexibility of organisation in the red man, and by inheritance from 
Indians also in half-breeds, that the habit seems impossible to be acquired 
by them, although they show great aptitude in other respects for civilised 
life. Thus they continue to be fishers and hunters, despite the fatigue 
and uncertainty of the process ; and this inveterate instinct is far more 
opposed to their progress in civilisation than the more imaginary one of 
their competition with an excessive vegetation. 

On the first night of the rainy season there was a tremendous uproar 
—tree-frogs, crickets, goat-suckers, and owls, all joining to perform a 
deafening concert. The croaking and hooting of frogs was so loud that 
they could not hear one anotlier's voices within doors. Ants and termites 
came forth in the winged state next day. Mr. Bates retreated to Para, 
under these adverse circumstances, and began to prepare for an expedition 
up the Amazons. At this epoch (1849) steamers had not been intro- 
duced, and nearly all communication with the interior was by means of 
sailing-vessels, and the voyage, made in this way, was tedious in the ex- 
treme. When the regular east wind blew — the " vento gerae," or trado 
wind of the Amazons — sailing-vessels could get along very well ; but 
when this failed, they were obliged to remain, sometimes many days 
together, anchored near the shore, or progress laboriously by means of 
the " espia." This, where the density of vegetation put tracking out of 
the question^ was accomplished by sending forward a cable by a montaria, 
which was secured to a tree or bough, and the vessel hauled up, and so 
on, repeating the process. Anything more tedious it is difficult to 
imagine. Mr. Bates obtained a passage in a schooner belonging to a 
young Mestizo, named Joao da Cunha Correia, who was ascending the 
river on a trading expedition. The channel by which the passage had to 
be effected from the Para to the Amazons was not more than eighty to 
one hundred yards in width, and was hemmed in by two walls of forest, 
which rose perpendicularly from the water to a height of seventy or 
eighty feet. The water was of great and uniform depth, even close to 
the banks. They seemed, indeed, to be in a deep gorge, and the strange 
impression produced was augmented by the dull echoes produced by the 
voices of the Indian crew and the splash of their paddles. This channel 
was thirty-five miles long, and it took three days and a half in effecting 
the passage. The extremity of the channel is said to be haunted by a 
Paje, or Indian wizard, whom it is necessary to propitiate by depositing 
some article on the spot, if the voyager wishes to secure a safe return 
from the " sertio,'* as the interior of the country is called. Here the 
trees were all hung with rags, shirts, straw-hats, bunches of fruit, and so 
forth. The men caught plenty of fish in these channels, the prevailing 

«/fll2e— VOL. CXXVIII. NO. DX. L 

142 The Piimeval Forests of the Amazons. 

kind being a species of Loricaria, wholly encased in bony armour. A 
small alligator, not more than two feet in length, is also found in the 
shallow creeks. 

The channel, on entering the Amazons Proper, formed a splendid 
reach, sweeping from south-west to north-east, with a horizon of water 
and sky both up stream and down. The majestic river did not, however, 
present the lake-like aspect which the waters of the Para and Tooantins 
affect, but had all the swing, so to speak, of a vast flowing stream. 
There was a spanking breeze, and the vessel bounded gaily over the 
waters. The same evening, however, a furious squall burst forth, tearing 
the waters into foam, and producing a frightful uproar in the neighbour- 
ing forests. In half an hour all was again calm, and the full moon ap- 
peared sailing in a cloudless sky. 

The Amazons is at the junction of the Xingu, one of its great tributaries, 
ten miles broad, and, with the exception of a trifling detention of two 
days in the sickening heat, becalmed, the weather was delightful, the air 
transparently clear, and the breeze cool and invigorating. At daylight 
on the 6th, a chain of blue hills, the Serra de Almeyrim, appeared in the 
distance on the north bank of the river. The sight was most exhilarating, 
after so long a sojourn in a flat country. The coast throughout is de- 
scribed, however, as having a most desolate aspect : the forest is not so 
varied as on the higher land, and the water frontage, which is destitute 
of the green mantle of climbing plants that form so rich a decoration in 
other parts, is encumbered at every step with piles of fallen trees, peopled 
by white egrets, ghostly storks, and solitary herons. The Almeyrim 
range is only the first of a long series of hilly ranges, each having their 
separate names, and, for the most part, with steep rugged sides, destitute 
of trees and clothed with short herbage, but here and there exposing bare 
white patches. One of these ranges, called the Paranaquara, is remark* 
able for its flat tops. The valley, or river plain, is contracted to its 
narrowest breadth in this hilly region, being only from four to five miles 
broad. In no other part of the river do the highlands on each side 
approach so closely. Beyond, they gradually recede, and the width of 
the river valley consequently increases^ until in the central parts of the 
Upper Amazons it is no less than five hundred and forty miles. 

Santarem, a beautifully situated town, which Mr. Bates made his head* 
quarters for no less than three years, lies at the mouth of the Tapajo% 
and, although four hundred miles from the sea, is accessible to vessels dF 
heavy tonnage coming straight from the Atlantic. There is plenty of 
land here, and the Tapajos opens a direct way into the heart of the 
mining provinces of int^or Brazil. But where is the population to come 
from, inquires Mr. Bates, to develop the resources of this fine country? 
At present the district, within a radius of twenty-five miles, contains 
barely six thousand five hundred inhabitants; behind the town the 
country is uninhabited, and jaguars roam nightly close up to the ends of 
the suburban streets. Thie while other countries are groaning under the 
necessity of contributing to the support of an excessive population. The 
tendency of mankind is to cumulate, instead of wisely distributing itself 
amidst virgin lands, forests, and waters. The progress in such regions is^ 
hence, of an almost geological slowness. 

Mr. Bates took op his head'-quarters for the time being at ObydoiLa 

ThA Primeval Forests of the Amazons. 143 

small town of twelve hundred inhabitants, on the north bank, airily 
situated on a high blu£P and in a hilly district. The river here is con- 
traeted to a breadth of rather less than a mile (1738 yards), and the 
entire volume of its waters, the collective product of a score of mighty 
streams, is poured through the strait with tremendous velocity, and a 
d^pth of from thirty to forty fathoms. Behind is an extensive lake, called 
the Lago Grande da Villa Franca, which communicates with the Amazons 
both above and below Obydos. The inhabitants of Santarem are mainly 
whites, and they have lately imported negroes, before which they used to 
do, what a free negro is said to have recommended us to do in Australia, 
to force servitude on the Indians. It is indeed questionable if it is not 
better to teach the savages to earn a livelihood by honest industry, than 
ta let them starve in idleness. There were heiresses at Obydos whose 
property was. reckoned in cacao plantations, oxen, and slaves. Some 
enterprising young men had come over from Para and Maranham to ap- 
propriate to themselves the ladies and their fortunes. The people were 
very sociable and hospitable, but only one had enterprise sufficient to 
establish a sugar-mill. 

The forest around Obydos was mcn^e varied than it is in the Amazons 
region generally,' and is rendered utterly impenetrable by the thick under- 
gtowth of plants of the pine-apple order, and by cacti. Monkeys abounded, 
and one species, a coaita, is much esteemed as an article of food. The 
worst isy that this is just the most mild, affectionate, intelligent, and 
huiBan4ike monkey. A wood-cricket ia also met with here that sings so 
loudly that the natives place it, like a bird, in a wickerwork cage. Mr. 
Bates likewise met with some transition forms here among butterflies, 
which he believes tend to show that a physiological species can be and is 
produced in nature out of the varieties of a pre-existing closely allied one. 
The process of origination of a species in nature, he remarks, as it takes 
pUiee successively, must be ever, perhaps, beyond man's power to trace, 
on account of the great lapse of time it requires. But we can obtain a 
fair view of it by tracing a variable and far-spreading species over the 
wide area of its present distribution, and a long observation of such will 
lead to the conclusion that new species in all cases must have arisen out 
of variable and widely disseminated forms. 

Mr. Bates started from Obydos in a trader's boat, passing on his way 
namerous houses, each surrounded by its grove of cacao-trees. A cacao- 
tree costs about sixpence, and one family manages its own small planta- 
tion of ten to fifteen thousand trees. The life of these cacao cultivators 
is pleasant: the work is all done under the shade, and occupies only a few 
w^ks in the year. But the people are poor, for they have no gardens, 
orehards, or domestic animals, and they live on fish and farinha. At night- 
tine the boat generally lay to, and dinner was also cooked ashore, either 
in a shady nook of the forest or at the house of some settler. The morn- 
ings were cool and pleasant, but by evening the heat would grow in- 
tolerable; later, however, the hours were delicious. The hammocks were 
swung on deck, and they went to sleep amid a perpetual chorus of animals, 
among whom the chief performers were the howling monkeys. Their 
frightful, unearthly roar deepened the feeling of sc^itude which crept on 
as darkness closed around them. Soon after, the fireflies came forth and 
flitted about the tisees^ As night advanced, all became silent in the forest, 

L 2 

144 The Pnmeval Forests oftlie Amazons. 

save the occasional hooting of tree-frogs, or the monotonous chirping of 
wood-crickets and grasshoppers. Now and then they came to large islands 
with sand-banks — open spaces in which the canoe-men take great delight 
— and hence they generally land at them, spending part of the day in 
washing and cooking. These sand-banks resembled the sea-shore. Flocks 
of white gulls were flying overhead, and sandpipers coursed along the 
edge of the water. These birds must have adapted fluviatile habits like 
the tern on the Nile and Euphrates. In this peculiarity they are analogous 
to the dolphins and porpoises, which in so vast a stream as the Amazons 
are, as we have seen, no longer marine, but purely fluviatile creations. 
There were also plenty of rarer birds, ibises, unicorn-birds, that bray like 
a jackass, barbets, or pig-birds, and others. 

An elevated wooded promontory constitutes the boundary between the 
provinces of Para and Amazons. Beyond this the explorers stopped four 
days at the village of Villa Nova. There were pools here, in which grew 
the Victoria water-lily, and which swarmed with water-fowl, snowy eg^ts, 
striped herons, and gigantic storks. Canary-birds and macaws were 
stirring in the trees. There were also hawks and eagles. At a subse- 
quent period, Mr. Bates passed eight months at this lively spot. The 
whole tract of land here is, in reality, a group of islands which extend 
from a little below Villa Nova to the mouth of the Madiera, a distance of 
one hundred and eighty miles ; the breadth of this island and lacustrine 
district varying from ten to twenty miles. The country bordering these 
interior waters is said to be extremely fertile and not insalubrious, the 
broad lakes having clear waters and sandy shores. They abound in fish 
and turtle, and swarm with wild-fowl. The woods, unfortunately, abound 
in ticks, as in red acari in other places, which mount to the tips of blades 
of grass, and attach themselves to the clothes of passers-by. Mr. Bates 
says it occupied him a full hour daily to pick them off his flesh after his 
diurnal rambles. The Urubu vultures were another annoyance. They 
are so bold that if the kitchen was left unguarded for a moment, they 
walked in and lifted the lids of the saucepans with their beaks to rob them- 
of their contents. They also follow the fishermen to the lakes, where 
they gorge themselves with the offal of the fisheries. Kept in their proper 
places, they are manifestly useful scavengers. The butterflies were at 
once colossal and most beautiful, and our naturalist describes it as a gprand 
sight to see them by twos and threes floating at a great height in the still 
air of a tropical morning. 

A next stay of ten days was made at a village where a line of clay difis 
diverts the course of the river. At a festival here, the meal consisted of 
a large boiled pirarucu — a manatee, or river cow — which had been 
harpooned for the purpose in the morning. Mr. Bates descnbes the 
meat as having the taste of very coarse pork ; but the fat, which lies in 
thick layers, is of a greenish colour, and of a disagreeable, fishy flavour. 
The manatee, or ^' vacca marina," as it is also called, is one of the few 
objects which excite the dull wonder and curiosity of the Indians, not- 
withstanding that it is very common. The fact of its suckling its young 
at the breast, although an aquatic animal, seems to strike them as some- 
thing very strange. One was killed on the Upper Amazons which was 
nearly ten feet in length, and nine feet in girth at the broadest part. 

Mr. Bates did not proceed on his first ascent of the Amazons beyond Banrnf, 

The Primeval Forests of the Amazons. 145 

a large goodly town at the junction of the Rio Negro, and which is now the 
principal station for the lines of steamers which were established in l8o3 
•—a steamer running once a fortnight between Para and Barra, and a bi- 
monthly one plying between the latter place and Nanta, in the Peruvian 
territory. On a second excursion, Mr. Bates left Barra for Ega, the first 
town of any importance on the Solimoens, while Mr. Wallace explored 
the Rio Negro. The distance is nearly four hundred miles, which he ac- 
complished in a small cuberta, manned by ten stout Cucama Indians, in 
thirty-five days. On this occasion he spent twelve months in the upper 
region of the Amazons. He revisited the same country in 1856, and 
devoted three years and a half to a fuller exploration of its natural pro- 
ductions. This in addition to his residence at Santarem and the explora- 
tion of the Tapajos. 

The sketches of life and of the aspects of nature under such various 
circumstances, and during such a lengthened period, are minutely de- 
tailed and very entertaining — nor were all these explorations effected 
without adventures. When on the Cupari, a tributary to the Tapajos, a 
Sucuruju (the Indian ^name for the anaconda, or great water-serpent, 
Eunectes murinus) robbed the hencoop in the boat. Some days after- 
wards, the young men belonging to the different sitios agreed together to 
go in search for the serpent, which had committed many other depreda- 
tions. It was found, after a long search, sunning itself on a log at the 
mouth of a muddy rivulet, and was despatched with harpoons. It was 
not a large one, only eighteen feet nine inches in length, but it had a 
most hideous appearance, owing to its being very broad in the middle and 
tapering abruptly at both ends. 

At Ega, Mr. Bates relates, a large anaconda was near making a meal 
of a young lad about ten years of age. The father and his son went one 
day in their montaria a few miles up the TefFe, to gather wild fruit; 
landing on a sloping, sandy shore, where the boy was- left to mind the 
€anoe whilst the man entered the forest. The beaches of the Teff6 form 
groves of wild guava and myrtle-trees, and during most months of the 
year are partly overflown by the river. Whilst the boy was playing in 
the water under the shade of these trees, a huge reptile of this species 
stealthily wound its coils around him, unperceived till it was too late to 
escape. His cries brought his father quickly to the rescue, and he 
rushed forward, and seizing the anaconda boldly by the head, tore its 
jaws asunder. There appears to be no doubt that this formidable serpent 
grows to an enormous bulk, and lives to a great age, for Mr. Bates heard 
of specimens having been killed which measured forty-two feet in length. 
The natives of the Amazons country universally believe in the existence 
of a monster water-serpent, said to be many score fathoms in length, 
which appears successively in different parts of the river. They call it 
the Mai d'agoa — '' the mother or spirit of the water." This fable, which 
was doubtless suggested by the occasional appearance of Sucurujus of 
unosually large size, takes a great variety of forms, and the wild legends 
form the subject of conversation amongst old and young, over the wood 
fires in lonely settlements. 

One day that Mr. Bates was entomologising alone and unarmed, in a 
dry ygapo, where the trees were rather wide apart and the ground coated 
to the depth of eight or ten inches with dead leaves, he was near coming 

146 The Primeoal Forests of ike Amazons. 

into collision with a boa-constrictor. He had just entered a little thicket 

to capture an insect, and was pinning it, when he was startled by a 

rushing noise. He looked up to the sW, thinking a squall was coining 

on, but not a breath of wind stirred in the ^e-tops. On stepping out of 

the bushes, he met face to ^sce a huge serpent coming down a slope, and 

making the dry twigs crack and fly with his weight as he moved o?er 

^em. He had frequently met with a smaller boa, the Cutim-boia, in a 

similar way, and knew from the habits of the iamily that there was no 

danger, so he stood his ground. On seeing him the reptile suddenly 

turned, and glided at an accelerated pace down the path. There-iras 

' very little of the serpentine movement in his course. The rapidly-moving 

-and shining body looked like a stream of brown liquid flowing over the 

thick bed of fallen leaves, rather than a serpent with skin of varied colours. 

The huge trunk of an uprooted tree lay across his road; this he glided 

' over in his undeviating course, and soon after penetrated a dense swampy 

. thicket, where Mr. Bates, who had set after him at first, says he did not 

care to follow him. 

Adventures with alligators are not less amusing. One day, when out 
turtle fishing in the pools in the neighbourhood of Ega, when the net was 
formed into a circle, and the men had jumped in, an alligator was found 
to be enclosed. ^^ No one," Mr. Bates says, ^^ was alarmed, the only fmr 
expressed being that the imprisoned beast would tear the net. First one 
shouted, ' I have touched his head ;' then another, ' He has scratched my 
leg.' One of the men, a lanky Miranha, was thrown off his balance, and 
' then there was no end to the laughter and shouting. At last a youth of 
about fourteen years of age, on my calling to him from the bank to do so, 
smed the reptile by the tail, and held him tightly, until, a little resistance 
being overcome, he was able to bring it ashore. The net was opened, and 
the boy slowly dragged the dangerous but cowardly beast to land through 

- the muddy water, a distance of about one hundred yards. Meantime^ I 
had cut a strong pole from a tree, and as soon as the alligator was draiwn 
to solid ground, gave him a sharp rap with it on the crown of his head, 
which killed him instantly. It was a good-sized individual ; the jaws 
being considerably more than a foot long, and fully capable of snapping 
a man's leg in twain." The species was the large cayman, the Jacas^- 
uassu of the Amazonian Indians (Jacare nigra). 

At another spot in the same neighbourhood no one could descend 
to bathe without being advanced upon by one or other of these hungry 
: monsters. There was much ofial cast into the river, and this, of course, 
. attracted them to the place. '^ One day," Mr. Bates relates, ^* I amused 
' myself by taking a basketful of fragments of meat beyond the line of 
fTanchos, and drawing the alligators towards me by feeding them. They 
■ behaved pretty much as dogs do when fed ; catching the bones I threw 
'them in their huge jaws, and coming nearer and nearer, showing increased 
' eagerness after every morsel. The enormous gape of their mouths, with 
^ their blood-red lining and long fringes of teeth, and the uncouth sfasipe 

- of their bodies, made a picture of unsurpassable ugliness. I once ortwwe 
fired a heavy charge of shot at them, aiming at the vulnerable part of 

•their bodies, which is a small space situated behind their eyes, but this 
^ had no other effect than to make them give a hoarse grunt and shake 
ctiiemselves ; tiiey immediately afterwards turned to receive another bone 
which I threw to them." 

(147 ) 






TiMB elapsed. Autamn weather had come ; and things were going 
on in their state of progression at Prior's Ash, as things always must 
go on. Be it slow or fast, be it marked or unmarked, the stream of 
Efe must glide forward; onwards, onwards; never stopping, never 
turning] &om its appointed course that bears straight towards 

In the events that concern us nothing had been very marked. At 
least, not outwardly. There were no startling changes to be recorded 
— unless, indeed, it was that noted change in the heart of the town. 
The bank of which you have heard so much was no more ; but in its 
stead fburished an extensive ironmongery establishment — which it 
was to be hoped would not come to the same ignoble end. The house 
Lad been divided into two dwellings : the one, accessible by the former 
private entrance, was let to a quiet widow lady and her son, a young 
man reading for the Church ; the other had been opened in all the 
grandeur and glory of highly-polished steel and iron. Q-rates, chimney- 
pieces, fire-irons, fenders, scrapers, gilded lamps, ornamental gratings, 
and other useful things more j^uzzling to mention, crowded the front 
windows and dazzled the admiring eyes of the passers-by. You might 
Iiave thought it was gold and silver displayed there, when the sun re- 
flected its light on the shining wares and brought out their brilliancy. 
Not one of the Godolphins could pass it without a keen heart-pang, 
but the general public were content to congregate and admire, as long 
as the novelty lasted. 

The great crash, which had so upset the equanimity of Prior's Ash, 
was beginning to be forgotten as a thing of the past. The bankruptcy 
was at an end — save for some remaining proceedings of form which did 
not concern the general public, and not much the creditors. Compas- 
sion for those who had been injured by the calamity was dying out : 
many a home had been rendered needy, many desolate ; but outside 
people do not make these uncomfortable facts any lasting; concern of 
theirs. There were only two who did make them so, in regard to 
Prior's Ash: and they would make them so as long as their Uves 
should last. 

George Godolphin's wife was lying in her poor lodgings, and 
Thomas was dying at Ashlydyat. Dying so slowly and imperceptibly 
that the passage to the grave was smoothed, and the town began to 
say that he might recover yet. The wrong inflicted upon others, how- 
ever unwillingly on his own part, the distress rife m many a house 
around, was ever present to him. It was ever present to Maria. 

148 The Shadow of Ashlydyat. 

Some of those who had lost were able to bear it ; but there were 
others upon whom it had brought privation, poverty, utter ruin. It 
was for these last that the sting was felt. 

A little boy had been bom to Maria, and had died at the end of a 
few days. He was baptised Thomas. " Name him Thomas : it will 
be a remembrance of my brother," Q-eorge Q-odolphin had said. But 
the young Thomas died before the elder one. The same disorder 
whicL had taken off two of Maria's other infants took off him — con- 
vulsions. " Best that it should be so," said Maria, with closed eyes 
and folded hands. 

Somehow she could not get strong again. Lying in bed, sick and 
weak, she had time to ruminate upon the misfortunes which had be- 
fallen them : the bitter, hopeless reminiscence of the past, the trouble 
and care of the present, the uncertainty of the future. To dwell upon 
such themes is not good for the strongest frame ; but for the weak it 
may be worse than can be expressed. Whether it was that, or whether 
it was a tendency to keep sick, which might have arisen without any 
mental trouble at all, Maria did not get strong. Mr. Snow sent her 
no end of tonics ; he ordered her all kinds of renovating dainties ; he 
sat and chatted and joked with her by the half-hour together : and it 
availed not. She was about again, as the saying runs, but she re- 
mained lamentably weak. " Tou don't make an effort to arouse your- 
self," Mr. Snow would say, thumping his stick in displeasure upon the 
floor as he spoke. Well, perhaps she did not : the plain fact was, that 
there was neither the health nor the spirit within her to make the 

Circumstances were cruelly against her. She might have battled 
with the bankruptcy ; with the shock and the disgrace ; she might 
have battled with the discomforts of their fallen position, with the 

Eainful consciousness of the distress cast into many a home, with the 
umiliation dealt out to herself as her own special portion, by the pious 
pharisees around ; she might have battled with the vague prospects of 
the future, hopeless though they looked: women equally sensitive, 
good, refined as Maria, have had to contend with all this, and have 
survived it. But what Maria could not battle with ; what had told 
upon her heart and her spirit worse than all the rest, was that dreadful 
shock touching her husband. She had loved him passionately ; she had 
trusted him wholly ; in her blind faith she had never cast so much as 
a thought to the j^ossibility that he could be untrue to his allegiance : 
and she had been obliged to learn that — ^infidelity forms part of a man's 
frail nature. It had dashed to the ground the faith and love of years ; 
it had outraged every feeling of her heart ; it seemed to have destroyed 
her trust in all mankind. Implicit faith ! pure love ! trust that she 
had deemed stronger than death ! — all had been rent in one moment, 
and the shock had been greater than was her strength to endure. It 
was as when one cuts a cord asunder. Anything, anything but this! 
She could have borne with George in his crime and disgrace, and clung 
to him all the more because the world shunned him ; had ke been sent 
out to Van Dieman's Land the felon that he^ might have been, she 
could have crept by his side and loved him still. But this was diffe- 
rent. To a woman of refined feelings, as was Maria, loving trustingly, 

The Shadow ofAshlydyaL 149 

it Tras as the very sharpest point of human agony. It must be such. 
She had reposed calmly in the belief that she was all in all to hirti: 
and she awoke to find that she was no more to him than were others. 
They had lived, as she fondly thought, in a world of their own, a world 
of tenderness, of love, of unity ; she and he alone ; and now she learnt 
that his world at least had not been so exclusive. Apart from more 
sacred feelings that were outraged, it brought to her the most bitter 
humiliation. She seemed to have sunk down to a level she scarcely 
knew with what. It was not the broad and bare infidelity : at that a 
gentlewoman scarcely likes to glance ; but it was the fading away of 
all the purity and romance which had enshrined them round, as with 
a halo, they alone, apart from the world. In one unexpected moment, 
as a flash of lightning will blast a forest tree and strip it of its foliage, 
leaving it bare — withered — helpless — so had that blow rent the heart's 
life of Maria Godolphin. And she did not get strong. 

Yes. Thomas Godolphin was dying at Ashlydyat, Maria was break- 
ing her heart in her lonely lodgings. Prior's Ash was suffering in its 
homes ; but where was the cause of it all — Mr. George ? Mr. George 
was in London. Looking after something to do, he told Maria. Pro- 
bably he was. He knew that he bad his wife and child upon his 
hands, and that something must be done, and speedily, or the wolf 
would come to the door. Lord Averil, good and forgiving as was 
Thomas Godolphin, had promised George to try and get him some 
post abroad — for George had confessed to him that he did not care to 
remain in England. But the prospect was a remote one at best ; and 
it was necessary that George should be exerting himself while it came. 
So he was in town looking after the something, and meanwhile not by 
any means breaking hi8 heart in regrets, or living like an anchorite up 
in a garret. Maria heard from him, and of him. Once a week, at 
least, he wrote to her, sometimes oftener ; affectionate and gay letters. 
Loving words to herself, kisses and stories for Meta, teasings and jokes 
for Margery. He was friendly with the Verralls — which Prior's Ash 
wondered at ; and would now and then be seen riding in the Park with 
Mrs. Charlotte Pain — the gossip of which was duly chronicled to Maria 
by her gossiping acquaintance. Maria was silent on the one subject, 
but she di\i write a word of remonstrance to him about his friendship 
with Mr. Verrall. It was scarcely seemly, she intimated, after what 
people had said. George wrote her word back that she knew nothing 
about it ; that people had taken up a false notion altogether. Verrall 
was a good fellow at heart ; what had happened was not his fault, but 
the fault of certain men with whom he, Verrall, had been connected ; 
and that Verrall was showing himself a good friend now, and he did 
not know what he should do without him. 

"A warm bright day like this, and I find you moping and stewing 
on that sofa ! I'll tell you what it is, Mrs. George Godolphin, you 
are trying to make yourself into a chronic invalid." 

Mr. Snow's voice, in its serio-comic accent, might be heard at the 
top of the house as he spoke. It was his way. 

" I am better than I was," answered Maria. " I shall get well some 

** Some time I It's to be hoped you will. Bat you are not doing 

150 The Shadow ofAshlydyat. 

.mucli yourself towards it. Have the French left you a cloak and 
bonnet, pray P" 

Maria smiled at his joke. She knew he alluded to the bankrupt^ 
commissioners. When Mr. Snow was a boy the English and French 
were at war, and he generally used the word French in a jesting way 
to designate enemies. 

'' Tbey left me all," she said. 

^' Then be so good as put them on. I don't terminate this visit miiii 
I have seen you out of doors." 

To contend would be more trouble than to obey. She wrapped 
harself up and went out with Mr. Snow. Her steps were almost too 
feeble to walk alone. 

''See the lovely day it is! And you, an invalid, suffering from 
nothing but dumps, not to be out in it ! It's nearly as warm as Sep- 
tember. Halloa, young lady ! are you planting cabbages ?" 

They had turned an angle and come upon Miss Meta. She was 
digging away with a child's spade, scattering the mould over the path; 
her woollen shawl, put on for warmth, turned hind before, and her hat 
fJEdlen back with the ardour of her labours. David Jekyl, who was 
digging to purpose close by, was grumbling at the scattered mould on 
his clean paths. 

" ril sweep it up, David ; I'll sweep it up," the young lady said. 

" Fine sweeping it 'ud be !" grunted David. 

" I declare it's as warm as summer in this path !" cried Mr. Snow. 
" Now mind, Mrs. Gheorge, you shall stop here for half an hour ; and 
if you get tired there's a bench to sit upon. Little damsel, if mamma 
goes in*doors, you tell me the next time I come. She is to stay out." 

'^ I'll not tell of mamma,". said Meta, throwing down her spade and 
turning her earnest eyes, her rosy cheeks, full on Mr. Snow. 

He laughed as he walked away. '^ You are to stay out for the half- 
hour, mind you, Mrs. George. I insist upon it." 

Direct disobedience would not have been expedient, if only in the 
light of example to Meta ; but Maria had rather been out on any other 
day, or been ordered to any other path. This was the first time she 
had seen David Jekyl since the bank had failed, and his father's loss 
was very present to her. 

" How are you, David P" she inquired. 

"I be among the middlin's," shortly answered David. 

" And your father ? I heard he was ill ?" 

" So he is ill. He couldn't be worser." 

" I suppose the coming winter is against him P" 

" There be other things again him as well as the coming winter," 
returned David. " Fretting, for one." 

Ah, how bitter it all was ! But David did not mean to allude in 
any offensive manner to the past, or to hurt the feelings of George 
Godolphin's wife. It was his crusiy way. 

'^ Is Jonathan better P" she asked[. 

" He ain't of much account, he ain't, since he got that hurt," was 
David's answer. " A doing about three days' work in a week ! It's 
to be hoped times '11 mend." 

Maria walked slowly to and fro in the sunny path, saying a word or 

27le Skiidow ofAMy€h/at 151 

two to Dsvid now and then, but choosing safer fiulijects ; the weather, 
the flowers under his chaise, the vegetables already nipped with frost. 
She looked very ill. Her face thm and white, her sofb sweet eyes 
larger and darker than was natural. Her hands were wrapped in the 
cloak for warmth, and her steps were unequal. Crusty David actually 
: yentured on a little bit of civility. 

** You don't seem to get about over quick, ma'am." 

« Not very, David. But I feel better than I did.'* 

She sat down on the bench, and Meta came flying to her, spade in 
hand. Might she plant a gooseberry-tree, and have all the goose- 
berries off it next year for herself ? 

Maria stroked the child's hair from her flushed &ce as ehe answered. 
Met& flew off to find the "tree," and Maria sat on, plunged in a 
irrain of thought which the question had led to. Where should they 
be at the gooseberry season next year? In that same dwelling? 
Would George's prospects have become more certain then ? 

" Now then ! Is that the way you dig ?" 

The sharp words came from Margery, who had looked out at the 
kitchen window and caught sight of Miss Meta rolling in the mould. 
The child jumped up laughing, and ran into the house for her skipping. 

" Have I been out half an hour, do you think, David p" Maria asked 

" Near upon 't," said David, without lifting his back or his eyes. 

She rose to pursue her way slowly in- doors. She was so fatigued— 
and there had been, to say, no exertion — ^that she felt as if she could 
never stir out again. The mere putting on and taking off her cloak 
was almost beyond her. She let it fall from her shoulders, put off her 
bonnet, and sank down in an easy-chair. 

From this she was aroused by hearing the garden gate hastily 
<^en. Quick footsteps came up the path, and a manly voice said 
something to David Jekyl in a free, joking tone. She bounded 
np, her cheek flushing to hectic, her heart beating. Could it be 
George ? 

No, it was her brother, Eeginald Hastings. He came in with a 
great deal of unnecessary noise and clatter. He had arrived from 
London only that morning, he proceeded to tell Maria, and was going 
up again by the night train. 

" I say,' Maria, how ill you look J" 

Very ill indeed just then. The excitement of sudden expectation 
had faded away, leaving her whiter than before. Dark circles were 
round her eyes, and her delicate hands, more feeble, more slender than 
of yore, moved restlessly on her lap. 

" I have been very feverish the last few weeks," she said. " I think 
I am stronger. But I have been out for a walk and am tired." 

"What did the little shaver die of?" asked Eeginald. 

" Of convulsions," she answered, her bodily weariness too great to 
speak in anything but a tone of apathy. " Why are you going up 
again so soon ? Have you got a ship ?" 

[Reginald nodded. " We have orders to join to-morrow at twelve. 
She's the Mary, bound for China, six hundred tons. I knew the 

152 The Shadow of AsUydyaL 

mother would nerer forgive me if I didn't come down to say good-bj, 
BO I thought I'd have two nights of it in the train." 

^ Are yon going second officer, Heginald ?" 

'' Second officer ! — no. I have not passed." 


^^ Thej are a confounded lot, that board !" broke out Mr. !EteginaU 
in an explosive tone. '^ I don't believe thej know their own business; 
and as to passing any one without once turning him, they won't do it 
I should like to know who has the money ! You pay your guinea^ and 
you don't pass. Come up again next Monday, they say. Well, you 
do go up again, as you want to pass ; and you pay another half-guinea. 
I did ; and they turned me again ; said I didn't know seamanship. 
The great owls ! not know seamanship ! I ! They took me, I expect, 
for one of those dainty middies in Green's service who walk the ded[ 
in kid gloves all day. If there's one thing I have at my fingers' ends 
it is seamanship. I could navigate a vessel all over the world — and 
be hanged to the idiots ! You can come again next Monday, they 
said to me. I wish the Times would show them np !" 

" Did you go again?" 

" Did I ! — no," famed Eeg^nald. " Just to add to their pockets by 
another half-guinea ! I hadn't got it to give, Maria. I just flung 
the whole lot over, and went down to the first ship in the dock and 
engaged myself." 

" As what ?" she asked. 

" As A. B." 

" A. B. ?" repeated Maria, puzzled. " You don't mean — surely you 
don't mean before the mast ?" 

" Yes I do." 

" Oh, Eeginald !" 

'' It doesn't make much difference," cried Eeginald, in a slighting 
tone. *^ The mates in some of those ships are not much better off than 
the seamen : you must work, and the food's pretty much the same, 
except at the skipper's table. Let a fellow get up to be first mate, and 
he is in tolerably smooth water ; but until then he must rough ill. 
After this voyage I'll go up again." 

" But you might have shipped as third mate." 

" I might — if I had taken my time to find a berth. But who was 
to keep me the while P It takes fifteen shillings a week at the Sailors' 
Home, besides odds and ends for yourself that you can't do without— 
smoke, and things. I couldn't bear to ask them for more at home. 
Only think how long I have been on shore this time, Maria. I was 
knocking about in London for weeks over my navigation, preparing to 
pass. — ^And for the mummies to turn me, at last !" 

Maria sighed. Poor Eeginald's gloomy prospects were bringing her 

" There's another thing, Maria," he resumed. " If I had passed for 
second mate, I don't see how I could go out as such. Where was my 
outfit to come from ? An officer — ^if he is on anything of a ship — maii 
be spruce, and have proper toggery. I am quite certain that to go out 
as second mate on a good ship would have cost me twenty pounds, for 
additional things that I couldn't do without. You can't get a sextant 

The Shadow ofAshlydyat 153 

under three pounds, second-hand, if it's worth having. You know I 
never could have come upon them for twenty pounds at home, under 
their altered circumstances." 

Maria made no reply. Every word was going to her heart. 

" Whereas in shipping as common seaman, I don't want to take 
much more than you might tie in a handkerchief. A fo'castle fellow 
can shift any way aboard. And there's one advantage," ingenuously 
added Beginald, ''if I take no traps out with me, I can't lose 

" But the discomfort ?" breathed Maria. 

" There's enough of that any way at sea. A little more or less of 
it is not of much account in the long run. It's aU in the voyage. I 
wish I had never been such a fool as to choose the sea. But I did ; so 
it's of no use kicking at it now." 

" I wish you were not going as you are !" said Maria, earnestly. " I 
wish you had shipped as third mate 1" 

" "When a sailor can't afford the time to ship as he would, he must, 
ship as he can. Many a hundred has done the same before me. To 
one third mate that's wanted in the port of London, there are scores 
and scores of A. B. seamen." 

" "What does mamma say to it P" 

" "Well, you know she can't afford to be fastidious now. She cried 
a bit, but I told her I should be all right. Hard work and fo'castle 
living won't break bones. The parson told me " 

" Don't, Keginald !" 

" Papa, then. He told me it was a move in the right direction, and 
if I would only go on so, I might make up for past short-comings. I 
Bay, Isaac told me to give you his love." 

" Did you see much of him ?" 

" No. On a Sunday now and then. He doesn't much like his new 
place. They are dreadfully overworked, he says. It's quite a different 
thing from what the bank was down here." 

" Will he not stop in it ?" 

" Oh, he'll stop in it. Glad, too. It won't answer for him to be 
doing nothing, when they can hardly keep themselves at home with 
the Uttle bit of money screwed out from what's put aside for the 

Beginald never meant to hurt her. He but spoke so in his thought- 
lessness. He rattled on. 

" I saw George Godolphin last week. It was on the Monday, the 
day that swindling board first turned me back. I ffung the books 
anywhere, and weut out miles, to walk my passion off. I got into the 
Park, to Kotten-row. It's precious empty at this season, not more than 
a dozen horses in it ; but who should be coming along but George 
Godolphin and Mrs. Pain with a groom behind them. She was riding 
that beautiful horse of hers that she used to cut a dash with here in 

the summer ; the one that folks said George gave " Incautious 

Iteginald coughed down the conclusion of lus sentence, whistled a bar 
or two of a sea-song, and then resumed : 

" George was well mounted too." 

^' Did you speak to them P" asked Maria. 

154 T%e Shadow ofAshlydyat 

" Of course I did," replied Eeginald, with a slight surprise. " And 
Mrs. Pain began scolding me for not having been to see her and the 
Verralls. She made me promise to go down the next evening. They 
live at a pretty place down on the backs of the Thames. You take 
the rail at Waterloo-bridge." 

« Did you go ?" 

^' Well, I did, as I had promised. But I didn't care much. I had 
been at my books all day again, and in the evening, quite late, I started. 
When I got there I found it was a tea-fight." 

'^ A tea-fight !" echoed Maria, rather uncertain what the expresaon 
might mean. 

" A regular tea-fight," repeated Eeginald. " A dozen folks, ladies 
mostly, dressed up to the nines : and there was I in my worn-out old 
sailors jacket. Charlotte began blowing me up for not coming to 
dinner, and she made me go in to the dining-room and had it brought 
up for me. Lots of good things ! I haven't tasted such a dinner since 
I've been on shore. Verrall gave me some champagne." 

" Was Gteorge there ?" inquired Maria, putting the question with 
apparent indifference. 

" No, George wasn't there. Charlotte said if she had thought of it 
she'd have invited Isaac to meet me : but Isaac was shy of them, she 
added, and had never been down once, though she had asked him 
several times. She's a good-natured one, Maria, is that Chariotte 

" Yes," quietly responded Maria. 

'^ She told me she knew how young sailors got out of money in 
London, and she shouldn't think of my standing the cost of respond- 
ing to her invitation ; and she gave me a sovereign." 

Maria's cheeks burnt. " You did not take it, Eeginald ?" 

" Didn't I ! It was like a godsend. You don't know how scaree 
money has been with me. Things have altered, you know, Maria. 
And Mrs. Pain knows it, too, and she has got no stuck-up nonsense 
about her. She made me promise to go and see them when I had 
passed. — But I have not passed," added Eeginald, by way of paren- 
thesis. " And she said if I was at fault for a home the next tmie I 
was looking out for a ship, she'd give me one, and be happy to see me. 
And I thought it very kind of her, for I am sure she meant it. Oh— 
by the way — she said she thought you'd let her have Meta up for a 
few weeks." 

Maria involuntarily stretched out her hand — as if Meta were there 
and she would clasp her and hold her from some threatened danger. 
Eeginald rose. 

" You are not going yet, Eegy !" 

" I must. I only ran in for a few minutes. There's Grace to see 
and fifty more folks, and they'll expect me home to dinner. I'll say 
good-by to Meta as I go through the garden. I saw she was there; 
but she did not see me." 

He bent to kiss her. Maria held his hand in hers. '< I shall be 
thinking of you always, Eeginald. If you were but going under 
happier circumstances !" 

" Never mind me, Maria. It vrill be up-hill work with most of us, 

The Shadow of Azhlydyat. 155 

I suppose, for a time. I thouglit it the best thing I could do* I 
couldn't bear to come upon them for more money at home." 

" Tours will be a hard life." 

" A sailor's is that, at best. Don't worry* about me. I shall make- ^ 
it out somehow. You make haste, Maria, and get strong. I'm sure 
you look sick enough to frighten folks." 

She pressed his hands between hers, and the tears were filling her 
eyes as she raised them, their expression one wild yearning. " Eegi- 
nald, try and do your duty," she whispered, in an imploring tone. 
" Think always of Heaven, and try and work for it. It may be very 
near. I have got to think of it a great deal now." 

'' Ifs aU right, Maria," was the careless and characteristic answer. 
" It's a religious ship I'm going in this time. We have had to sign 
articles for divine service on board at half-past ten every Sunday 

He £sBed her several times, and the door closed upon him. As 
Maria lay back in her chair, she heard his voice outside for some time 
afterwards, laughing and talking with Meta, largely promising her a 
ship-load of monkeys, parrots, and various other live wonders. 

In this way or that, she was continually being reminded of the* 
unhappy past and their share in it; she was perpetually having 
brought before her its disastrous effects upon others. PoorEeginald ! 
entering upon his hard life ! This need not have been, had the means 
not grown scarce at home. Maria loved him the best of all her 
brothers, and her very soul seemed to ache with its remorse. And by^ 
some means or other, she was, as you see, frequently learning that Mr. 
GFeorge was not breaking Im heart in remorse. The suffering in all 
ways fell upon her. 

And the time went on, and Maria Godolphin grew no stronger^ 



The time had gone on, and Maria Godolphin, instead of growing 
stronger, grew weaker. Mr. Snow could do nothing more than he had 
done ; he sent her tonic medicines still, and called upon her now and 
then, as a friend more than as a doctor. The strain was on the mind, 
he concluded, and time alone would heal it. 

But Maria was worse than Mr. Snow or anybody else thought. She 
had been always so delicate-looking, so gentle, that her wan face, her 
sunken spirits, attracted less attention than th^ would have done in 
one of a more robust nature. Nobody glanced at the possibility of 
danger. Margery's expressed opinion, "My mistress only wants 
rousing," was the one universally adopted : and there may have been 
truth in it. 

All question of Maria's going out of doors was over now. She was 
really not equal to it. She would lie for hours together on her sofa, 
the little child Meta gathered in her arms. Meta appeared to have 
changed her very nature : instead of dancing about incessantly, running 
into every mischief, she was content to nestle to her mothei^s bosom 

156 The Shadow of AshlydyoL 

and listen to Her whispered words, as if some foreshadowing were on 
her spirit that she miglit not long have a mother to nestle to. 

You must not think that Maria conformed to the usages of an 
invalid. She was up before breakfast in a morning, she did not go to 
bed until the usual hour at night, and she sat down to the customaiy 
meals with Meta. She has risen from the breakfast-table now, on this 
fine morning, not at all cold for the late autumn, and Margery has 
carried away the breakfast-things, and has told Miss Meta, that if she'll 
come out as soon as her mamma has read to her and have her things 
put on, she can go and play in the garden. 

But when the little Bible story was over, her mamma lay down on 
the sofa, and Meta appeared inclined to do the same. She hustled on 
to it and lay down too, and kissed her mamma's face, so pretty still, 
and began to chatter. It was a charmiug day, the sun shining on the 
few late flowers, and the sky blue and bright. 

" Did you hear Margery say you might go out and play, darling ? 
See how fine it is." 

" There's nothing to play with," said Meta. 

" Tliere are many things, dear. Your skipping-rope, and hoop, 
and — 


I'm tired of them," interposed Meta. " Mamma, I wish you'd 
come out and play at something with me." 

" I couldn't run, dear. I am not strong enough." 

" "When shall you be strong enough ? How long will it be before 
you get well ?" 

Maria did not answer. She lay with her eyes fixed outwards, her 
arm clasped round the child. " Meta darling, I — I — ^am not sure that 
I shall get well. I begin to think that I shall never go out with you 

Meta did not answer. She was looking out also, her eyes staring 
straight up to the blue sky. 

" Meta darling," resumed Maria, in a low tone, " you had two little 
sisters once, and I cried when they died, but I am glad now that they 
went. They are in heaven." 

Meta looked up more fixedly, and pointed with her finger. " Up in 
the blue sky." 

^' Yes, up in heaven. Meta, I think I am going to them. It is a 
better world than this." 

" And me too ?" quickly cried Meta. 

Maria laid her hand upon her bosom to press down the rising 
emotion. " Meta, Meta, if I might but take you with me !" she 
breathed, straining the child to her in an agony. The prospect of 
parting, which Maria had begun to look at, was indeed hard to bear. 

" You can't go and leave me," cried Meta, in alarm. " Who'd tdkd 
care of me, mamma P Mamma ! do you mean that you are going to 
die P" 

Meta burst into tears; Maria cried with her. Oh reader, reader! 
do you know what it is, this parting between mother and child P To 
lay a child in the grave is bitter grief ; but to leave it to the mercy of 
the world ! — ^there is nothing like unto it in human anguish. 

Maria's arms were entwined around the little girl, clasping her 

The Shadow ofAshlydyat. 157 

nervously, as if that might prevent the future parting; the soft, 
rounded cheek was pressed to hers, the golden curls lay around. 

" Only for a little while, Meta. If I go first, it will be but for a 
little while. Tou— " Maria stopped ; her emotion had to be choked 

." It is a happier world than this, Meta," she resumed, over- 
mastering it. " There will be no pain there ; no sickness, no sorrow. 
This world seems made up of sorrow, Meta. Oh, child ! but for Q-od's 
love in holding out to our view that other one, we could never bear 
this, when trouble comes. God took your little sisters and brothers 
from it ; and — I think — He is taking me." 

Meta turned her face downwards, and laid hold of her mother with 
a frightened movement, her little fingers clasping the thin arms to 

" The winter is coming on here, my child, and the trees will soon 
be bare ; the snow will cover the earth, and we must wrap ourselves 
up from it. But in that other world there will be no winter : no cold 
to chill us ; no sultry summer heat to exhaust us. It will be a plea** 
sant world, Meta, and God will love us." 

Meta was crying silently. " Let me go too, mamma." 

" In a little while, darling. If God calls me first, it is His will," 
she continued, the sobs breaking from her aching heart. '^ I shall ask 
Him to take care of you after I am gone, and to^ bring you to me in 
time ; I am asking Him always." 

" Who'll be my mamma then p" cried Meta, lifting her head in a 
bustle, as the thought occurred to her. 

More pain. Maria choked it down, and stroked the golden curls. 

** You will have no mamma then, in this world. Only papa." 

Meta paused. " Will he take me to London, to Mrs. Pain ?" 

The startled shock that these simple words brought to Maria 
cannot well be pictured : her breath stood still, her heart beat wildly. 
" Why do you ask that ?" she said, her tears suddenly dried. 

Meta had to collect her childish thoughts to tell why. ''^When you 
were in bed ill, and Mrs. Pain wrote me that pretty letter, she said 
if papa would take me up to London she'd be my mamma for a little 
while, in place of you." 

The spell was broken. The happy visions of heaven, of love, had 
been displaced for Maria. She lay quite silent, and in the stillness 
the bells of All Souls' church were heard to strike out a joyous peal 
on the morning air. Meta clapped her hands and lifted her :mce, 
radiant now with glee. Moods require not time to change in child- 
hood : now sunshine, now rain. Margery opened the door. 

" Do you hear *em, ma'am ? The bells for Miss Cecil. They be as 
glad as the day. I said she'd have it fine last night, when I found 
the wind had changed. I can't abear to hear wedding-bells ring out 
on a wet day : the two don't accord. Eh me ! why here's Miss Eose 
a coming in !" 

Sose Hastings was walking up the garden path with a quick step, 
nodding at Meta as she came along. That young lady slipped off the 
sofa, and ran out to meet her, and Maria rose up from her sick position, 
and strove to look her best. 

June — VOL. cxxvui. no. dx. m 

158 The Shadow of AsAfydyai. 

** I have come for Meta," said Boee, as she entered. '^ Mamma 
tlunks she would like to see the wedding." Will you kt her ecam, 

Maria hesitated. ''In the church, do you mean? Suppose die 
should not be good ?*' 

'^ I will be good," said Meta, in a high state of delight at the 
prospect. '^ Mjunma, I'll be rery good." 

She went with Margery to be dressed. Bose turned to her (ristoe. 
<< Are you pretty well this morning, Maria ?" 

*^ Pretty weU, £ose. I cannot boast of much strength yet." 

'^ I wish you would return with me and Meta. Mamma told me to 
try and bring you. To spend the day with us will be a ehange^ and 
you need not go near the church." 

'^ I don't feel equal to it, Bose. I should not have the strengtii to 
walk. Tell mamma so, with my dear love." 

'^ Maria, I wonder they did not ask you to the wedding I" 

<< Do you P It is a foolish wonder, Bose. I am not suffieientiy 
well for weddings, even had other circumstances been ftLroxxnbm. 
Cecil was here yesterday, and sat an hour with me." 

'' Only fancy ! — she is to be married in a bonnet !" exclaimed Bose, 
with indignation. '' A bonnet and a grey drees. I wonder Lord 
Averil consented to it ! I should hardly call it a wedding. A bonnet! 
— and no break&st ! — and Bessy &odolphin and Lord AVeril'a sisfcoe^ 
who is older if anything than Bessy, for the bridesmaids !" 

'^ Would a gayer wedding have been consistent — under the eixcnm- 
stances P" 

Bose knitted her brow at the words, but smoothed her hand over it, 
remembering who was looking at her. " I — I do not see, Maria," 
she hesitati^ly said, " that what has past need throw its shade on 
the wedding oi Cecil and Lord Averil." 

*^ And the state of Thomas Godolphin ?" 

*' Ah, yes, to be sure I I was not thinking of him. But it is very 
dreadful to be married without a wreath and a veil, and with only a 
couple of old bridesmaids." 

'^ And by only one clergyman," added Maria, her lips parting wiA 
a smile. '' Do you think the marriage will stand good, Boae P" 

Bose felt inclined to resent the joke. The illusions of the wedding- 
day were, in her eyes, absolutely necessary to the marriage ceremony. 
Meta. came in, ready ; as full of busUing excitement as ever ; eager to 
be gone. She kissed her mamma in careless haste, and was impatient 
because Bose lingered to say a word. Maria watched her down the 

Eath ; her face and eyes sparkling, her feet dancing with eageraeas, 
er laughter ringing in the air. 
'^ She has forgotten already her tears for the parting that rnuit 
come," murmured Maria« '' How soon, I wonder, after I ahall be 
gone, will she forget me P" 

She laid her temples lightly against the window-frame, as she looked 
dreamily at the blue sky ; as she listened dreamily to the aweet bells 
that rang out so merrily in the ears of Prior's Ash* 

The Shadow ofAshlydyaL 159 



Pbio&'b Ass lingered at its doors and its windows, carious to wit- 
nesB the outer signs of Cecilia Gt>dolphin's wedding. The arrange^ 
ments for it were to ihem more a matter of speculation than of cer- 
tainty, siiDce rarious rumours had gone afloat^ and were eagerly caught 
up, although of the most contradictory character. All that appeared 
certain aa yet was — ^that the day was charming and the bells were 

How the beadle kept the gates that day, he alone knew. That staff 
of his was brought a great deal more into requisition than was liked by 
the sea of noses pressing there. And when the first carriage came^ 
the excitement in the street was great. 

Thej^^ carriage ! There were bt^ two ; that and another. Prior's 
Ash turned up its disappointed nose, and wondered, with Bose Hast- 
ings, what the world was coming to. 

It was a chariot drawn by four horses. The livery of the postilions 
and the coronet on the panels proclaimed it to be Lord Averil's. He 
sat inside it with Thomas Grodolphin. The carriage following it was 
Lady Godolphin's, and appeared to contain only ladies, all wearing 
bonnets and coloured gowns. The exasperated gazers, who had bar- 
gained for something very diffdrent, set up a half groan. 

They set up a whole one, those round ttie gates, when Lord Averil 
and his friend alighted. But the groan was not one of exasperation, 
or of anger. It was a low murmur of sorrow, of sympathy, and it wast 
called forth by the appearance of Thomas Godolphin. It was some 
little time now since Thomas Gbdolphin had been seen in public, and 
the change in him was startling. He walked forward, leaning on the 
arm of Lord Averil, lifting his hat to the greeting that was breathed 
around ; a greeting of sorrow meant, as he knew, not for the peer, but 
fisr him, and his fading life. The few scanty hairs stood out to their 
view as he uncovered his head, and the ravages of the disease that wa» 
killing him w^re all too conspicuous on his wasted features. 

'^ &od bless him. He's very nigh upon the grave." 

Who said it of the crowd, Thomas Gocblphin could not tell, but the 
worda and their acc^at, full of rude sympathy, came distinctly upon 
his ear. He quitted the viscount's arm, turned to tbran, and raised his 
hands with a solemn meaning. 

^ &od bless you all, my friends. I am indeed near upon the grave* 
Should there be any here who l»ive suffered injury through me, let 
them forgive me for it. It was not intentionally done, and I may 
ahnost say that I am expiating it with my life. Miay Gbd bless you 
all, here and hereafter !" 

Something like a sob burst from the astoxnshed crowd. But that 
he had hastened on with Lord Averil, they might have faUen oax their 
knees amd dung to him in their flood-tide of reepeet and lore. 

The Beveiiend Mr. Hastings stood in has surplice at 1^ altar. He, 
too, was changed. The keen, vigorous, healthy man had now a grey, 

M 2 


1 60 The Shadow of AshlydyaL 

worn look. He could not forget tlie blow ; minister though he was, 
he could not forgive Qeorge Grodolphin. He was not quite sure that 
he forgave Thomas for not having looked more closely after his brother 
and the bank generallj : had he done so, the calamity might never have 
occurred. Every hour of the day reminded Mr. Hastings of his loss, 
in the discomforts which had necessarily fallen on his home, in the 
position of his daughter Maria. G^or^e G-odolphin had never been a 
favourite of his : he had tried to like him in vain. It was strange that 
where so many owned to the fascination of George Godolphin, the 
Bector of All Souls' and his daughter Grace had held aloof ; had dis- 
liked him. Could it have been some mysterious friendly warning of 
future ill, which would make itself heard in the heart of Mr. Hastings 
and whisper him not to give away Maria ? At any rate, it had not 
answered. He had given her, and he had striven to like her husband 
afterwards : but he had not fully succeeded : he never would have suc- 
ceeded without this last blow, which had drawn him under its wheels 
with so many others. The Bector of All Souls' was a man of severe 
judgment, and rumour had made too free with gay George's name for 
him to find favour with the rector. 

He stood there, waiting for the wedding-party. A few ladies were 
in the church in their pews, and Eose Hastings sat there with Meta. 
All eyes were turned to the door in expectation : but when the group 
entered there was not much to see. No cortege, no marshalling, no 
veils, no plumes, no anything ! But that Bose was prepared for it, she 
would have shrieked out with indignation. 

Lord Averil was the first to enter. Cecilia Godolphin came next 
with Thomas. She wore a light grey silk robe, and a plain white 
bonnet, trimmed inside with orange-blossoms. The Honourable Miss 
Averil and Bessy Godolphin followed ; old in Bose Hastings's opinion, 
certainly old for bridesmaids ; their silk dresses of a darker shade of 
grey, and their white bonnets without the orange-blossoms. Lady 
Godolphin was next, more resplendent than any, in a lemon brocaded 
dress that stood on end with richness. 

Bid the recollection of the last wedding service he had performed for 
a Godolphin cause the Bector of All Souls' voice to be subdued now, 
as he read ? Seven years ago he had stood there as he was standing 
to-day, George and Maria before him. How had that promising union 
ended P And for the keeping of his sworn vows, George best knew 
what he had kept and what he had broken. The rector was thinking 
of that past ceremony now. 

This one was over. The promises were made, the register signed, 
and Lord Averil was leading Cecilia from the church, when the rector 
stepped before them and took her hand. 

" I pray God that your union may be more happy than some others 
have been,"; he said. " That, in a great degree, rests with you, Lord 
Averil. Take care of her." 

Her eyes filled with tears, but the viscount grasped his hand warmly. 
« I will; I will." 

" Let me bless you both, Averil !" broke in the quiet voice of 
Thomas Godolphin. '^ It may be that I shall not see you again to 
do it." 

The Shadow ofAshtydyat 161 

" Oh, but we shall meet again ; yau must not die yet," exclaimed 
liord Averil, with feverish eagerness. " My friend, I would rather 
part with the whole world, save Cecil, than with you." 

Their hands lingered together — and separated. Not very long now 
would Thomas keep them out of Ashlydyat. 

The beadle was nobbing his stick on the heads and noses with great 
force, and the excited crowd pushed and danced round that travelling 
carriage, but they made their way to it. The placing in Cecil and the 
taking his place beside her seemed to be but the work of a moment, so 
quickly did it pass, and Lord Averil, a pleasant smile upon his face, 
bowed to the shouts on either side as the carriage threaded its way 
through the throng. Not until it had got into clear ground did the 
postilious put their horses to a canter, and the bridegroom and bride 
were feiriy away on their bridal tour. 

There was more ceremony needed to place the ladies in the other 
carriage. Lady Godolphin's skirts, in their extensive richness, took 
^ve minutes to arrange of themselves, ere a space could be found for 
Thomas Godolphin beside her. The footman held the door for him. 

" No," he said ; " I will follow you presently." 

Bessy felt startled. " You will not attempt to walk ?" she said, 
leaning forward. 

He smiled at her ; smiled at the utter futility of such an attempt 
now. The time for walking to Ashlydyat was past for Thomas Gro- 

** A fly is coming for me, Bessy. I have a call or two to make." 

Lady G-odolphin's carriage drove away, and Thomas turned into the 
rectory. Mrs. Hastings, grey, worn, old, ten years older than she 
bad been six months before, came forward to greet him, commisera- 
tion in every line of her countenance. 

" I thought I would say good-by to you," he said, as he held her 
bands in his. " It will be my only opportunity. I expect this is my 
last quitting of Ashlydyat." 

" Say good-by ?" she faltered. " Are you — ^are you — so near " 

"Look at me," quietly said Thomas, answering her unfinished 

But there was an interruption. Bustling little feet and a busy little 
tongue came upon them. Miss Meta had broken from Eose and run 
in alone, throwing her straw hat aside as she entered. 

" Uncle Thomas ! Uncle Thomas ! I saw you at the wedding, 
Uncle Thomas." 

He sat down and took the child on his knee. '' And I saw Meta," 
be answered. " How is mamma ? I am going to see her presently." 

" Mamma's not well," said Meta, shaking her head. " Mamma cries 
oflen. She was crying this morning. Uncle Thomas" — flowering 
ber voice and speaking slowly — "mamma says she's going to 

There was a startled pause. Thomas broke it by laying his hand 
upon the golden-haired head. 

*' I trust we are all going there, Meta. A little earlier or a little 
later, as God shall will. It will not much matter when." 

A few minutes' conversation, and Thomas Godolphin went out to 

162 The Shadow of Ashhfifyat. 

the fly which waited for him. Bexley, who was wiiih it, helped 
him in. 

" To Mrs. George Godolphin's." 

The attentive old retainer— older by twenty years tiian Thomas, 
but younger in health and vigour— carefolly assisted his master up 
the garden path. Maria saw the approach from the window. Why 
it was she knew not, but she was feeling unusually iU. that day: 
scarcely able to rise to a sitting position on the sofa. ThomAS was 
shocked at the alteration in her, and involuntarily thought of the 
child's words, '^ Mamma says she's going to heaven." 

^ I thought I should like to say £Eurewell to you, Maria," he said, 
as he drew a chair near her. '^ I did not expect to find you lookiiig 
so ill." 

She had burst into tears. Whether it was the unusual depression 
of her own spirits, or his wan face, emotion overcame her. 

'' It has been too much for both of us," he murmured, holding her 
hands. '^ We must forgive him, Maria. It was done in carelenmess, 
perhaps, but not in wilfulness." 

'^ No, no ; not in wilfulness," she whispered. '* He is my husband 
and your brother still." 

There was a lull in their emotion. Thomas gave her some of the 
details of the wedding, and she was beguiled to ask different questions. 
" Do you know what George is likely to do ?" he suddenly inquired. 

'^ No ; I wish I did know. He tsdks much of this promise of Lord 
Averil's, and says he is looking out for something to do in the mean 
while. The imcertainty troubles me greatly. We cannot live on 

" Has he sent you any money lately P" asked Thomas, in a voioe of 

Maria's face flushed. '* He gave me ten pounds ^en he was at 
home last, and it is not spent yet." 

Thomas leaned his head on his hand musingly. ^ I wonder where 
he gets it ?" 

Maria was silent. To say " I think he is helped by Mr. Verrall," 
might only have given Thomas fresh pain. " It is very kind of you 
to come to see me," she said, changing the subject. '* I feel it dull 
here all day alone." 

" Why do you not come to Ashlydyat sometimes ? Tou know 
we should be glad to see you." 

She shook her head. '' I can't go out, Thomas. And indeed I am 
not strong enough for it now." 

'^ But, Maria, you should not give way to this grief; this weakness. 
Tou are young ; you have no incurable complaint as I have." 

" I don't know," she sighed. " At times I feel as though I should 
never be well again. I— I — have been so reproached, Thomas; so 
much blame has been cast to me by all people ; it has been as if J 
had made away with their money ; and you know that 1 was as inno- 
cent as they were. And there have been other things. If — if—" 

" If what ?" asked Thomas, leaning over her. 

She was sitting back upon the so&^ her fair young faee wan and 

TTie Shadow ofAshlydyat. 163 

colourless, ber delicate hands clasped together, as in apathy. ^' If it 
were not for leaving Meta, I should be glad to die.'* 

"Hush, Maria! Bather saj you are glad to live for her sake. 
George may, by some means or other, become prosperous again, and 
you may once more have a happy home. You are young, I say ; you 
must bear up against this weakness." 

"If I could biit pay all we owe; our personal debts I*^ she whispered, 
unconsciously giving utterance to the vain longing that was ever work- 
izig in her heart. " Papa's nine thousand pounds — and Mxb, Bond's 
ten pounds — and the Jekyls— and the tradespeople !" 

"If J could but have paid!" he rejoined, in a voice broken by 
emotion. " If I could — if I could — I should have gone easier to the 
grave. Maria, we have a Gt>d, remember, who sees all our pangs, all 
lur bitter som>w : but for Him, and my trust in Him, I Bhoalfbaye 
died long ago of the pain. Things have Latterly been soothed to me in 
a most wonderful manner. I seem to feel that I can leave all the 
Borrow I have caused to Him, trusting to Him to shed down the 
recompense. We never know until our need of it comes, what His 
znercy is." 

Maria covered her face with her hand. Thomas rose. 

" You are not going P" j^e exclaimed. 

" Yes, for I must hasten home. This has been a morning of exertion, 
and I find there's no strength left in me. God bless you, Maria." 

"Are we never to meet again?" she asked, as he held her thin 
liands in his, and she looked up at him through her blinding tears. 

" I hope we shall meet again, Maria, and be together for ever and 
for ever. The threshold of the next world is opening to me : this is 
closing. Fare you well, child ; fare you well." 

Bexky came to him as he opened the parlour door. Thomas asked 
for Margery : he would have said a kind word to her. But Margery 
Imd gone out. 

MSma stood at the window, and watched him with her wet eyes as 
he walked down the path to the fly, supported by Bexley. The old 
man closed the door on his master and took his seat by the driver. 
Thomas looked forth as tbey drove away, and smiled a last farewell. 

A farewell in the deepest sense of the word. It was the last look, 
the last smile, that Maria would receive in this lifo &om Thomas 

( 164 ) 



There is a Latin epistle extant, of Roger Ascham's to Lady Jane 
Grey — who, by- the- by, wrote to him in Greek — in which, alluding to 
his last interview with her (that memorable one, namely, when the g^ood 
Cantab found her reading Plato, in her chamber alone, while the duke 
and duchess, her parents, with all the household gentlemen and gentle- 
women, were hunting in the park), Roger declares her to be happier in 
her love of good books, than in her descent from kings and queens. No 
doubt he spoke sincerely, is Hartley Coleridge's remark; but he knew 
not then how truly : her studious quietude of spirit was Jane's inde- 
feasible blessing, while her royal pedigree was like an hereditary curse, 
afflicting her humility with unwilling greatness, and her innocence with 
unmerited distress. 

What that royal pedigree was, is succinctly stated in that same '* gentle 
book with a blustering title,'* as Uncle Southey called the Biographia 
Borealis — in which the too true truism is apologetically propounded (by 
way of preface to the pedigree in question), that genealogical tables are 
not at everybody's finger's end, and are, indeed, the most troublesome 
part of modern history. Thus stands the ^Grey line of descent, then: 
Lady Jane was the daughter of Frances Brandon, the daughter of Mary, 
Queen-Dowager of France, and sister of Henry VHL, by Charles 
Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. Her father was Henry Grey, Marquis of 
Dorset, descended from Elizabeth, queen to Edward IV., by her former 
marriage, through her son, Thomas Grey, who married the king's niece. 
The father of Lady Jane was created Duke of Suffolk, on the failure of 
the male line of tne Brandons. He had divorced his first Lady, the 
daughter of Fitzalan, Earl of Arundel, on the ground of barrenness, in 
order to marry Frances Brandon. Thus among the other conformities 
between the Lady Jane and Edward VL, it may be observed that both 
were children of divorced fathers.* 

The elective as well as other afiinities between Edward and Jane, 
might well seem to warrant and promise an auspicious conjunction of the 
distinguished cousins. Our Northern Biographer himself suggests — ^in 
his S}^mpathy with, and admiration for the youthful pair (never to be 
paired, though,) — that when Jane Grey was surprised with Plato in her 
hand, a sober hope might have conjectured, that if ever there was a 
marriage made in Heaven, if ever earthly pair was predestined to bless 
each other and their country, such a couple were Jane Grey and her 
cousin Edward. Roger Ascham was sober enough, and, in the case 
of either cousin, loyally and affectionately hopeful ; and well may we 
assume that such a " sober hope" possessed his soul in peace, when he 
saw the noble girl over her Phado that summer day — even 

Her, most gentle, most unfortunate, 
Crown'd but to die — who in her chamber sate 

* Biographia Borealis : Roger Ascham. 

Lady Jane Grey. 165 

Musinf^ with Plato, though the horn was blown. 
And every ear and every heart was won. 
And all in green were chasing down the sun I ♦ 

How stood, as Ascham's biographer states tbem, the relative qualifica- 
tions and attractions of the gentle dual? Of one blood, and com- 
panionable age,t their studies, talents, virtues, faith the same ; each 
seemed a " fair divided excellence," to be perfected in holy union. " He, 
the gentle offspring of a most ungentle sire ; she the meek daughter of 
the haughtiest of women ; both the elect exceptions of their races, as if 
the saintly Margaret of Lancaster, cutting off the intermediate line of 
Tudors, had entailed her nature on these her distant progeny. 

'^ But it was not to be so. Their fortunes were never ordained to 
meet, but ever to run parallel. Each bore awhile the royal title, while 
others exercised the sovereign power. Both gave forced assent to deeds 
done in their name, which their hearts approved not. Both lived to see 
their kindred dragged, not guiltless, to the scaffold, though Jane was 
spared the agony of consenting to the execution. In fine, they both died 
young, but who can say that they either died untimely ? Rather be it 
thought, that they had done their work ; they had fitted themselves for 
immortality : and as for the work of the world, what God purposes, God 
will do, using indifferently the agencies of good and evil, as of day and 
night, sunshine and storm. Nor let it be supposed that He whose name 
is Merciful, was less merciful in calling Jane to himself by the swift 
stroke of an axe, than in conducting Edward homewards by the slow 
declivity of a consumption. This at least is certain, that she was favoured 
in the defeat of the party which usurped her name. For what was the 
death she died, what had been the life in death of an inquisitorial dun- 
geon, to what she must have undergone, if the wicked Dudleys had 
deflowered her conscience ? forcing her to things which, in her simplicity, 
she could not distinguish 

Whether she suffered or she did,t 

but which would have left her, like Lucretia, impure in her own eyes, 
though stainless before the universal reason ?"§ 

There is a well-known Imaginary Conversation between Ascham and 
Lady Jane, in which the former professes already to see perils on perils 
which the fair young bride does not see, " albeit wiser than her poor old 
master ;" and in which he says that, having once persuaded her to reflect 
much, he would now — on the eve of her marriage — persuade her to 
avoid the habitude of reflection, to lay aside books, and to gaze carefully 
and steadfastly on what is under and before her. As for the bridegroom, 
*' Gentle is he," testifies the Mentor — ** gentle and virtuous : but time 
will harden him : time must harden even thee, sweet Jane ! Do thou, 

* Rogers, Human Life. 

•\ *' Jane Grey, eldest daughter of the Duke of Suffolk, was nearly of the same 
age with Edward. Edward had been precocioas to a disease; the activity of his 
mind had been a symptom, or a cause, of the weakness of his body. Jane Grey's 
accomplishments were as extensive as Edward's," &c.<~Eroude, Hist, of England, 
Tol. vL p. 6. 

t S. T. Coleridge: The Pains of Sleep. 

§ Hartley Coleridge : Northern Worthies. 

166 Lady Jam Grey. 

complacently and indirectly, lead him from ambition.*' Jane intimates, 
in modest reply, that her Guilford is avowedly contented with her and 
with home, out, ^' Ah, Jane ! Jane !" rejoins Master Roger, '^ men of 
high estate grow tired of contentedness." Then she relates how Guil- 
ford has told her he never likes books unless she reads them to him ; so 
she will read them to him every evening — will open new worlds to him 
richer than those discovered by the Spaniard — will conduct him to trea- 
sures, O what treasures ! on whidi he may sleep in innocence and peace. 
But Ascham would have her rather walk with her unbookish hiisband, 
and ride with him, play with him, be his faery, his page, his everything 
that love and poetry have invented ; yet, " watch him well; sport witS 
his fancies ; turn them about like the ringlets round his cheek, and if 
ever he meditate on power," adds Roger, proleptically, " go toss up thy 
baby to his brow, and bring back his thoughts into his heart by the music 
of thy discourse."* In fine, the sage would have her teach Dudley to 
live unto God and unto her, and so discover that women, like the plants 
in woods, derive their softness and tenderness from the shade. 

That time mtist harden even thee, sweet Jane ! as the trustful scholar 
cannot but distrustfully foresee, 

*Ti8 true, 'tis pity, pity *tis *tis true. 

But did it so harden her as to justify the almost antipathy with .whidi 
some writers regard her— the stringent severity with which they pro- 
nounce sentence on her brief career as wife and queen ? Even a censor 
so pervadingly gentle and generous as Leigh Hunt — ^whose general bias 
rather was to laxity of indulgence and over-kindness in judgment— even 
this mild optimist appears to have a spite against Lady Jane. In several 
of his miscellaneous writings he acts the iconoclast by this fair image. 
He is no believer either in her, or in her cousin Edward. He has no 
tenderness whether for the boy-king of a few years, or for the girl-queen 
of a few days. In his essay on the Female Sovereigns of England be 
remarks of *' Queen Jane," that she did but reign long enough (ten or 
eleven days) to undo the romance of her character and quarrel with her 
husband. The world, he says, has been in the habit, '' with an honour- 
able credulity," of taking Lady Jane Grey and Lord Guilford Dudley 
for a pair of mere innocent lovers and victims. '* Victims they were^ 
but not without a weakness little amiable on one side, if not on both.*^ 
In another work the same author complains that " Even poor Lady Jane 
Grey's character does not improve upon inspection." The Tudor blood, 
he says, manifested itself in her by her sudden love of supremacy the 
moment she &lt a crown on her head, and her preferring to squabble 
with her husband and his relations, '^ who got it her,'' rather than l9t 
him partake her throne. " She insisted he should be only a duke, and 
suspected that his family had given her poison for it. This undoes the 
usual romance of ' Lady Jane Grey and Lord Guilford Dudley ;^ — and 
thus it is that the possession of too much power spoils almost «very 
human bdng, practical or theoretical. Lady Jane came oat of the 
elegancies and tranquillities of Uie schools, and of her Greek and LatiOf 

* Landor, Imaginary Conversations: Roger Ascham and Lady Jane Gr^. 
f Leigh Hunt, Female Sovereigns of England. 

Lady Jane Grey. 167 

to find her Flatonisms yanish before a dream of royalty. She redisooTered 
them, however, when it was over, aod that b something. She was 
brought up a slave, and therefore bred to be despotic in her turn; but 
habi^ vanity, and good sense alike contributed to restore her to the 
better part of herself at ^e last nioment."* 

These LeonHne estimates are certainly calculated to ^'undo the 
romance" of Jane's brief royalty, and disenchant her admirers in general 
of their particular admiration. Such a reading of her character and dis- 
position is incompatible with the ideal one cherishes of her, as of the 
« emperour's doughter" in Chaucer— 

In hire is hye bewt^, without^ pryde ; 
Yowthe, without^ grefhed or foyle ; 
To alle hire werk^ vertu is hire gyde ; 
Humblesse hath slaine in hire tycrannye; 
Sche is myroor of all^ curtesye, 
Hir herte is verrey chambreof holynesse, 
Hir hond mynistre of fredom and almesse.f 

But, as Leigh Hunt, in vivacious historical essay, so Sharon Tumor 
and others, in heavy-paced history, with all its dignity and all its gravity, 
have sought to disillusionise us of our weakness for Jane. Turner, for 
instance, says, that, mild and modest and young, as she unquestionably 
was, the spirit of royalty and power had within twenty rfonr hours gained 
such an ascendancy in her studious mind, that she heard the intamatioQ 
of her husband b^ng elevated to the same dignity as herself with vexa- 
tion and displeasure. *^ As soon as she was left alone with him, she to* 
monstrated against this measure ; and after much dispute, he agreed to 
wait till she herself should make him king, and by one act of parliament. 
Sut even this concession, to take this dignity as a boon from her, did^not 
satisfy the sudden expansion of her new->bom ambition."^ And so on. 
Por a fair and free account of these domestic differences — so far as the 
rationale of Jane's remonstrancy is concerned-— we cannot do better than 
consult the graphic historian of England under the Tudors. 

When the Marquis of Winchester came into Lady Jane's apartment^ 
to wish her joy, he brought the crown with him, we are told, which she 
had not sent for, but which he desired her to put on, and see if it required 
any alteration. She said it would do very well as it was. He then told 
lier, continues Mr. Froude, that, before her coronation, another crown 
•was to be made for her husband ; whereupon Lady J«ae started, and die 
dreary suspicion seems for the first time to have crossed her mind that she 
was, after all, but the puppet of the ambition of tJie duke to raise bos 
&mily to the throne. " Winchester rethred, and she sate indignant§ tffl 
Guilford Dudley appeared, when she told him that, young as she was, she 
Jmew that the crown of England was not a thing to be trifled with. 
There was no Dudley in Edward's will, and, before he could be crowned, 
the consent of parliament must be first adced and obtained." Then we 
■read how the boy-husband went whining to his mother, while Jsoie sent 

♦ The Town, vol. ii. 

t The Canterbury Tales : The Man of Lawes Tale. 

% History of the Reigns of Edward VI., Mary, and Elizabeth. ^ Buffon 
Turner. Vol. iv. p. 219. 
§ Le quale parole io senti con mio gran dispiacerek— Baoardo. 

168 Ziady Jane Grey. 

for Arundel and Pembroke, and told them that it was not for her to 
appoint kings : she would make her husband a duke, if he desired it; that 
was within ner prerogative; but king she would not make him. '^As 
she was speaking, the Duchess of Northumberland rushed in with her 
son, fresh from the agitation of Mary's letter.* The mother stormed, 
Guilford cried like a spoilt child that he would be no duke, he would be 
a king : and when Jane stood firm, the duchess bade him come away, and 
not share the bed of an ungrateful and disobedient wife.f 

" The first experience of royalty had brought small pleasure with it. 
Dudley's kingship was set aside for the moment, and was soon forgotten in 
more alarming matters. To please his mother, or to pacify his vanity, 
he was called ' Your Grace.' He was allowed to preside in the council, 
80 long as a council remained, and he dined alone — tinsel distinctions, for 
which the poor wretch had to pay dearly ."J 

Jane might well be cautious, considering the hands into which she had 
fallen, and the means by which her present elevation had been attained. 
Her own title was wrongfully, and by her had been protestingly, assumed. 
Lord Macaulay's diatribe on the character and career of Archbishop 
Cranmer, comprises some bitter strictures on the movement which made 
him, '^ from whatever motive," the accomplice of the worthless Dudley. 
The virtuous scruples of another young and amiable mind were to be 
overcome. As Edward had been forced into persecution, Jane was to be 
seduced into treason. 

"No transaction in our annals," Macaulay emphatically affirms, "is 
more unjustifiable than this. If a hereditary title were to be respected, 
Mary possessed it. If a parliamentary title were preferable, Mary pos- 
sessed that also. If the interest of the parliamentary religion requiied a 
departure from the ordinary rule of succession, that interest would have 
been best served by raising Elizabeth to the throne. If the foreign rela- 
tions of the kingdom were considered, still stronger reasons might be 
found for preferring Elizabeth to Jane. There was great doubt whether 
Jane or the Queen of Scotland had the better claim ; and that doubt 
would, in all probability, have produced a war both with Scotland and 
with France, if the project of Northumberland had not been blasted in 
its infancy ."§ 

Mr. Landor has concocted an Imaginary Conversation between the 
Princess Mary and the Princess Elizabeth (of which uusisterly pair he 
likes the latter lady considerably the least) — supposed to occur while 
Queen Jane's brief hour of sovereignty is taking its flight. ' In this 
colloquy, the vixenish younger sister, being incidentally checked in her 
objurgations by Mary's prudish reminder, " Sister ! sister ! you forget 
that the Lady Jane Grey (as was) is now queen of the realm," hoUy 
replies : <' Forget it indeed! The vile woman 1 I am minded to call her 
as such vile women are called out of doors." Mary remonstrates once 

• The letter, namely, of July 9, 1553, to the Lords of the Council, in which 
Mary claimed the crown as her right, and required them to proclaim her accession 
in London. 

t Baoardo. 

X Froude, History of England, from the Fall of Wolsey to the I>eath of Eliza- 
beth, vol. vi. pp. 15-6. 

§ Critical Essay on Hallam's Constitutional History. 



Lady Jane Grey. 169 

more, ^ith a '^ pray abstain ;" but Bess is not to be kept from pursuing^ 
her game, at her own speed, and in her own helter-skelter style. She is 
hardly a saint, she owns ; indeed, far from it ; and she is much too young 
for a martyr. " But that odious monster, who pretends an affection for 
reformation, and a reverence for learning, is counting the jewels in her 
crown, while you fancy she is repeating her prayers, or conning her 

It may seem to most readers that this Conversation is more Imaginary 
than usual, and that the characters of the interlocutors are not in keeping 
with individual vraisemblance and historical truth. But whether it be 
likely or not, possible or not, that so discreet, demure, and reticent 
a damosel as the youthful Elizabeth was, should have "spoken her 
mind" in this free-and-easy fashion, one can readily believe that, of the two 
sisters, she may have personally cherished the heartier grudge against 
Lady Jane. 

Mr. Froude, indeed, virtually implies in his History of the Tudor 
reigns, that Mary would have suffered Jane to live, but for the outbreak 
of Wyatt*s rebellion. In an essay of his, however, contributed some 
years since to the Westminster JRevieWf we find a story mentioned with 
some degree of credit, the tendency of which is to trace Mary's unfor- 
g^veness of Jane to a personal feeling of long rankling religious resent- 
ment The essayist, after commenting on Mary's mode of dealing with 
the rebels at large, proceeds to say, that she disgraced her previous 
clemency by the execution of her cousin — an execution which ''was 
neither necessary nor just, and was no more than a useless piece of 
cruelty." Lady Jane Grey, he further observes, was not implicated in 
Wyatt's rebellion ; nor was she to have profited by it if it had succeeded; 
and other motives are supposed to have influenced the queen beyond what 
appeared on the surface. ''It is said that she never forgave a speech 
which Lady Jane had made a year or two before, when on a visit to her 
at New Hall. One of the ladies in waiting was showing her over the 
house, and took her, among other places, into the chapel. In passing the 
altar, the lady curtsied. Lady Jane asked what she meant by that. Her 
God was present there, the lady answered, and she curtsied to Him. 
Lady Jane, with a half smile, said she believed the baker had made 

" Such a piece of profanity, doubtless, lost nothing on the way through 
the lady in question to Mary ; and, on the mind of so thoroughly devout 
and real a believer, may well have made an impression which could never 
he effaced. It would of course be foolish to suppose that this, or any other 
single feeling, determined her upon acting as she did, but the sense that 
she was punishing an obstinate heretic, as well as her rival to the throne, 
may have softened the reluctance which we will hope that she experienced. 
This warrant was signed the day after the battle in the streets, in the 
midst of that excitement of feeling which follows the escape from serious 


No such mention is made of this story by Mr. Froude in his History. 

* Imaginary Conversations, by Walter Savage Landor: Princess Mary and 
Princess Elizabeth. 
t WeamimUr Hwiew, "New Series, "So. Y. Art. " Mary Tudor.*' 

170 Lady Jane Grey. 

He there says, merely, that Jane Grey was guiltless of this last eommotioii 
— ^her name not having been so much as cited among the insurgents ; bat 
she was gfuilty of having been once called queen, and Maiy, who before 
bad been generously deaf to the Emperor's advice, and to Renard^s argv- 
Bients, yielded in h«r present humour. Philip was beckoning in the cus- 
tonce; and while Jane Grey Hved, Philip, she was i^ain and again 
assured, must remain for ever separated from her arms.* 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge incidentally illustrates one phase of a per- 
verted intellect by the policy of those *' zealots for legitimate succesnon 
after the decease of our sixth Edward, who not content with having placed 
the rightM sovereign on the throne, would wreak their veng^nce on 
*die meek usurper/ who had been seated on it by a will against which 
she had herself been the first to remonstratc't 

The story is a sad one, for all concerned. Mr. Plumer Ward dilates, 
almost sentimentally, on the sympathy and anguish, '' I might almost 
Sffjr, the agony of mind," with which one views the '* unmerited suffering 
of die meek, humble, and pious Jane Grey. As &r from intending crime 
as an angel of light; in herself pure as accomplished, beautiful as young, 
and unpretending as beautiful, her hard, hard fortune must interest a 
savage ; and one passes in haste over the page of her merciless execution, 
lest the heart grow too sick with pity."{ How different the infonmng 
spirit of that tribute, from Leigh Hunt's chilly conclusion that Jane's 
best — and by implication we might well-nigh infer her only — claim to 
the respect of posterity must remain with her taste for literature. *^ She 
bad the good sense to feel, and avow, that there was no comfort like her 
books in adversity. Her nature seems in other respects to have had a 
formal insipidity, excitable only by stimulants which did not agree with 
it."§ Scant measure for the height and depth of England's all bofe 
universally b^ved and lamented Lady Jane. 

Even her ezcellences as a literate person are but fiuntly recc^ised in 
the foregoing ^Missage — always considering how kindly disposed, and how 
even eager in eulogium, the writer of it generally is. He could not, how- 
ever, but pay hia respects, in passing, — coldly as it is done, — to a merit 
of which three centuries, and two hemispheres, have been sounding the 

Hartley Coleridge reverently styles her *' a creature whose memory 
should singly put to rout the vulgar prejudice against female erudition.") 
The question may be mooted and discussed, of Lady Jane's comparative 
scholarship, in rriation to the advanced standard of a later age. Bat 
question there is none of her absolute superiority in literary culture and 
classical lore. Mr. Fronde's account is, that she had acquired a degree 
of learning rare in matured men, which she could use gracefeUy, and 
could permit to be seen by others without vanity or consciousness ; and 
that her character had developed with her talents. *' At fifteen she was 
learning Hebiew and could write Greek ; at sixteen she corresponded 
with Bullinger in Latin at least equal to his own ; but the matter of her 
letters is more striking than the language, and speaks more for her than 

* Fronde's mitory of England under the Tudors, voL vi cfr. zxzi^ 

t The Friend, essay i. f Tremaine, voL iii. di. zxxiS. 

\ Men, Wom^ and BooSra, vol. k p. 396 |[ Koithem Worthies, voL ii 

LaAf Jane Grm/^ 171 

the most eklnnrafce panegjries of admiring conrtiers. She haff left m 
poftraii of hwself dmwn dj her own hand ; a portrait of pietyy parity^ 
and free noble inBoeeoee, uncoloored, e?eB to & £uilt, with the eatotioaal 
weakness of humanity.* While the effeets of the Refarmaitio» in Eng^* 
land had been chiefly vistble in the outward dominion of seonndrels and 
in the eeUpse oi the hereditary virtues of the national character, Lady 
Jane Grey had lived to diow that the defect was not in the Reformed 
£uth, but in ^e absence of all faith — that the g^races of a St. Elizabe^ 
could be rivalled by the pupil of Cranmer and Ridley. The Cathc^ie 
saint had no excellenee of which Jane Grey was without the promise ; 
the distinction was in the freedom of the Protestant from the hys^riei^ 
atmbilion oi an unearthly nature, and in the presence thirough a more 
i&telligent creed, of a vigorous and practical uBderstandh3g,''t 

Twenty to one — we might, without risk, increase tiie odds even ten at 
twentyfold — the reader is wholly unread in the now dim pages which 
ddineate, in some seven or eight volumes, of some fifty Letters each, the 
history of l%r Charles Grandison and the Honourable Miss Byron. What 
Sir Charles had to say, therefore, on the erudition of Lady Jane, is old 
enough to be new, now-a-days, by way of quotation. Not that there is 
novdity in his point of view, or mode of expression; but for his now 
obsolete popularity's sake let us give the chevalier sans reproehe a heap- 
ing. The age in which Shakspeare flourished Sir Charles^ pronounces the 
age of English learning, as well as of En^ish bravery — the queen and 
her court, the very la£es of it, he says, berng more learned than any 
oovirt of our English sovereigns was before, or hath been since. ** What 
a prodigy of learning, in the short reign of Edward ilie Sixth, was the 
Lady Jane Grf^jr !— -Greek, as well as LiBitin, was familiar to her, as it was 
to Queen Elizabeth. And can it be supposed, that the natural geniusee 
of those ladies were more confined or limited, for their knowledge of Latin 
and Greek P'j; But we must not let even Sir Charles seduce us to bear 
htm argue out that collateral issue. 

On tiie suloject of relative female scholarship^ aa of the rixteenth 
century versus the nineteenth, Macaulay thought there was so much oris- 
i^prehension, that, nearly a quarter of a century ago, he devoted some 
energetic remarics to the refutation of what be reckoned a pedlar fiUlacy: 
He had often heard men speak with rapture of the Ei^lmi ladies of toe 
nxteenth century, and lament that they could find no modem damsel re'- 
aembling those fair pupils of Ascham and Ayhner wha compared, over 
their embroidery, the styles of Isocrates and LysiaSy and who, while the 
horns were sounding, and the dogs in full cry, sat in the lonely oriel, wi& 
eyes riveted to that immortal page which tells how me^ly and bravely 
ine first great martyr of intellectual liberty took the oi^ from his weep* 
iDg gaoler* But surely, argued the Edinburgh Reviewer, t^Mse cms- 
plaints have very little n>imdation. *< We would by no means disparage 
the ladies of the sixteenth century or their pursmts. But we conceive 
that those who ext^ them at the expense of the women of our time forget 

* Letters of Lady Jane Gr^ to Bullinger : Epiitols TiguxiaB, j^ 3-7. (Froude, 
t Froude% History of England, voL vi. ch. xxx. 
} History of Sir Cfaades GfandisoD, vol vi letler hv 

172 Lady Jane Grey. 

one very obvious and very important circumstance. In the time of Henry 
the Eighth and Edward the Sixth, a person who did not read Greek and 
Latin could read nothing, or next to nothing. The Italian was the only 
modem language which possessed anything that could be called a litera- 
ture. All the valuable books then extant in all the vernacular dialects of 
Europe would hardly have filled a single shelf." England, he goes on to 
say, by way of proof and example, did not yet possess Shakspeare's plays 
and the Fsdry Queen, nor France Montaigne's Essays, nor Spain Don 
Quixote. Then, looking in his mind's eye round a well-furnishea library, 
bow many English or French books, he asks, can we find which were 
extant when Lady Jane Grey and Queen Elizabeth received their educa- 
tion ? Chaucer, Gower, Froissart, Comines, Rabelais, seem to him nearly 
to complete the list. *' It was therefore absolutely necessary that a woman 
should be uneducated or classically educated. Indeed, without a know- 
ledge of one of the ancient languages no person could then have any clear 
notion of what was passing in the political, the literary, or the religious 
world. The Latin was in the sixteenth century all and more than all that 
the French was in the eighteenth 

'' This is no longer the case. All political and religious controversy 
is now conducted in the modern languages. The ancient tongues are 
used only in comments on the ancient writers. The great productions of 
Athenian and Roman genius are indeed still what they were* But though 
their positive value is unchanged, their relative value, when compared with 
the whole mass of mental wealth possessed by mankind, ha^ oeen con- 
stantly falling. They were the intellectual all of our ancestors. They 
are but a part of our treasures. Over what tragedy could Lady Jane 
Grey have wept, over what comedy could she have smiled, if the anqent 
dramatists had not been in her library V** 

Accordingly this keenly retrospective reviewer presumes that a modem 
reader can make shift without (Edipus and Medea, while he possesses 
Othello and Hamlet; and reminds us that if he knows nothing of 
Pyrgopolynices and Thraso, he is familiar with Bobadil, and Bessus, and 
Pistol, and Parblles ; that if he cannot enioy the delicious irony pf Plato, 
be may find some compensation in that of Pascal ; and that if be is shut 
out from Nephelococcygia, he may take refuge in Lilliput. ^ In fine, it is 
Macaulay's averment, that the stock of iatellectual wealth bequeathed to 
us by the ancients has been so carefully improved, that the accumulated 
interest now exceeds the pnncipal. He contends that the books which 
have been written in English, French, German, Italian, and Spanish, 
during the last two hundred and fifty years, — translations from the 
ancient languages, of course, included, — are of greater value than all the 
books which at the beginning of that period were extant in the world. 
And inasmuch as Englishwomen are at feast as well acquainted as Eng- 
lishmen with the modem languages of Europe, he professes tp have no 
hesitation, when comparing the acquirements of Lady Jane Grey with 
those of an accomplished young woman of our own time, in awarding the 
superiority to the latter. 

All this, however, leaves untouched the positive excellence of Lady 
Jane as an exemplaiy and eminent scholar, indeed of pre-eminent mark 

* Macanlay's Critical Essays, vol. 11. Art **Lord Bacon." 

Lady Jane Grey. 173 

and likelihood. Still is she seen to stand out, prominent from the virgins 
that be her fellows, as one who — again to draw a comparison from an* 
other tale of Chaucer's — 

Whan sche bad leyser and might therto entent. 

To lemfe bookes was al hir likyins:, 

How sche in vertu might hir Ijf despent.* 

It is not unpleasing to see that weatherbeaten warrior and stout- 
hearted old cavalier, Agrippa d'Aubigne, — the energetic, restless, in- 
domitable grandsire of Madame de Maintenon, — subdued to the melting 
niood, s^attendrissant^ when recording in one of his many writings, la 
ntort tragique de Jeanne Gray^ who, in the words of a modern bio- 
grapher of Agrippa's, united *' a un savoir qui eut honor6 un homme 
toutes les vertus de son sexe."! It moved the stalwart Gaul to think 
and write of her last sayings, so much " plus graves qu'on ne pouvait 
I'esperer de sa jeunesse,"^ especially if i^idX jeunesse had been French 
born and bred. But, in life and death, and the manner of them both, 
Jane was true English. 

Wyatt's rebellion was, as we have seen, the ostensible cause of her 
doom, although that enterprise was one in which no selfish or personal 
interest, politically speaking, could have been taken by her. Here was a 
good opportunity, which must not be missed, the Spanish party insisted, 
to make a good riddance of the house of Suffolk, and sweep away that 
nest of pestilent traitors from the face of the earth. No time was lost in 
conveying to Lady Jane the message of her now inexorable fate. She 
was appointed to have been put to death on Friday, the 10th of February 
(lS54), "but was stayed" — until Monday, the 13th, — "for what cause 
is not known," writes the Chronicler of Queen Mary. Baoardo supplies 
our living historian of the Tudors with the explanation. Which is, in 
effect, that, in killing her body, Mary yet desired to have mercy on 
heretic Jane's poor soul, and sent the message of death by the excellent 
Feckenham, afterwards Abbot of Westminster, who was to bring her, if 
possible, to obedience to the Catholic faith. Feckenham, whom Mr. 
Froude describes as a man full of gentle and tender humanity, felt to the 
bottom of his soul the errand on which he was despatched : he felt as a 
Catholic priest — but he felt also as a man. "On admission to Lady 
Jane's room, he told her that she was to die the next morning [Friday], 
and he told her, also, for what reason the queen had selected him to com- 
municate the sentence. — She listened calmly. The time was short, she 
said; too short to be spent in theological discussion; which, if Feckenham 
would permit, she would decline. 

'* Believing, or imagining that he ought to believe, that, if she died 
unreconciled, she was lost, Feckenham hurried back to the queen to beg 
for delay ; and the queen, moved with his entreaties, respited the execu- 
tion till Monday, giving him three more days to pursue his labours. But 
Lady Jane, when he returned to her, scarcely appreciated the favour; she 
had not expected her words to be repeated, she said; she had given up 
all thoughts of the world, and she would take her death patiently when- 
ever her Majesty desired. — Feckenham, however, still pressed hb services, 

* Canterbury Tales : The Menkes Tale. t Leon Feug^re. 

X Histoire Unlverselle, par Agrippa d'Aubignl. 
June — ^voL, cxxvui. no. dx. n 

174 Lady Jane Grey, 

and courtesy to a kind and anxious old man forbade her to refuse them. 
He remained with her to the end; and certain arguments followed oa 

faith and justification, and the nature of sacraments Lady Jane 

was wearied without being convinced."* 

Not until they parted on the sca£fold steps on Monday morning, had 
she the heart to tell the good old man how much he had bored her, for 
all that was over now. It was with 'Vwarm thanks" for his attentions 
that she took leave of him — *' although, indeed,'* she fairly confessed, 
'* those attentions liave tried me more than death can now terrify me.'*f 
He would not be dismissed, however, but to the last acted on the adage 
that while there's life there's hope.j; Her last words to him, notwith- 
standing that solemn leave-taking, were not yet said. Lady Jane too^ 
like so many less innocent sufferers, had her more last words. Should 
she say the Miserere f she asked him, as he clung to her side ; and the 
heavy-hearted old churchman approved, and listened to her soft breathing 
of the fifty-first psalm, verse by verse, all of them so deeply fraught with 
devoutest supplication and penitential passion, ere she let down her long 
hair, and uncovered her white neck. 

Hume's less appreciative version of the Feckenham episode is, that the 
queen's zeal, under colour of tender mercy to the prisoner's soul, indooed 
her to send divines, who *' harassed her with perpetual dispujtation ; and 
even a reprieve for three days was granted her, in hopes that «he wouU 
be persuaded, during that time, to pay, by a timely conversion, sems 
regard to her eternal welfare." He admires the Lady Jane's ** preaenes 
of mind," which enabled her, ** in these melancholy circumstances," net 
only to defend her religion by all the topics then in use, but alse to wAm 
a letter to her sister in the Q-reek language ;§ in whichy besides sending 
her a copy of the Scriptures in that tongue, she exhorted her to mauataioi 
in every fortune, a like steady perseverance. || It was only by messaga^ 
too, that she would (or perhaps could) take leave of her husbAod. Xki 
Council had decreed, we are told, that Lady Jane and Lord Guilford 
should be executed together on the same scaffold, on Tower- hill 4 but 
afterwards, *' dreading the compassion of the people for ^heir yood^ 
beauty, innocence, and noble birth," rescinded that order, and directed 
Jane's execution to take place within the verge of the Tower* 

The morning on which they were to suffer, Guilford begged for ''a 
last interview and a last embrace" — it being left to herself to consent 4« 
refuse. Her reply was, that, if the meeting would benefit either of their 
souls, she would see him with pleasure ; but, in her own opinion, it would 
only increase their trial. They would meet soon enough in the othor 
world. He died, therefore, without seeing her again. She eaw him once 

* Froude, VI. 183-5. f Baoardo. Ibid., 187. 

X ** Je ferai remarquer," says M. Dargaud, in his recent monograph, as tht 
phrase goes, '* que si Feckenham, en ofTrant k Jane Grey la vie pour la conTe^ 
sion, pouvait §tre de bonne fol, Marie certes tendait un pi^ge."— Histoire de Jane 
Grey, par J. M. Dargaud. Paris: 1863. 

But, objects one of M. Dargaud's English reviewers, neither Feckenham nor 
Mary made any offer of life as the rewa^ of conversion, — at least as the story il 
told alike by Hume, Turner, Lingard, and Froude: Jane did not die on any point 
of religion at all; and Feckenham was simply sent to try to save her soul in the 
next world, when it was determined to destroy her in this. — See Satwrday Remtm^ 
No. 396. 

S Foxe, m. 36; Heylm, 166. 

Ij Hume, History of England, ch. xxxyi. 

Lady Jam Grey. 175 

alive, however, writes Mr. Froude, as he was led to the scaffold, and 
again as he returned a mutilated corpse in the death-cart. 

Not that this was wilful cruelty. Only the officer in command 
awkwardly happened to forget that the ordinary road led past Jane's 
window. " But the delicate girl of seventeen was as masculine in her 
heart as in her intellect. When her own turn arrived, Sir John Brydges 
led her down to the green ; her attendants were in an agony of tears, but 
her own eyes were dry. She prayed quietly till she reached the foot of 
the scaffold, when she turned to Feckenham, who still clung to her side." 
To that wistful, disappointed confessor she then made the frank but not 
ungracioQS confession to which reference has been made. This done, she 
sprang up the steps, and in a few words declared her innocence. Then 
ensued that repetition of the Miserere psalm already mentioned — and 
then wmi her hair let down, and her neck uncovered for the executioner's 

The «Bd is soon told, and simply, — the more simply the better. An 
old chronicler will do this best. '^ The hangman kneeled down and asked 
her forgiveness, whom she forgave most willingly. Then he willed her 
to stand upon the straw, which doing, she saw the block. Then she said, 
I pray you despatch me quickly. Then she kneeled down, saying, Will 
you take it off before I lay me down ; and the hangman answered No, 
Madam. She tied a kercher about her eyes ; then, feeling ibr the block, 
she said. What shall I do ? where is it ? One of the bystanders guiding 
her thereunto, she laid her head down upon the block, and stretched 
forth her body, and said, Lord, into thy hands I commend my spirit. 
And so she mided."* 

The artlete directness of this simple r^ecord is more effective, and 
affecting, by far, than the elaborate elegiacs of old Agrippa d'Aubigne, 
thoi]^ he, too, is genuine in his way, and commemorates the mart ~tra* 
gifue of his favourite Jeanne with still more emphasis in his most ambi- 
tious poem, than he had done in his History. The fourth book of his 
*^ Tragiques," which he entitles les Feux, is a sort of Protestant martyr- 
ology, and proposes to rescue from oblivion the names and fair £ames of 
not only a John Huss, a Jerome of Prague, a Granmer, a Norris, &c., 
but also a galaxy of suffering women, perfected through suffering, and 
triumphant through and for the truth. Among these he assigns a fore* 
most place to EngKsh Jane — and thus he describes the closing scene 
which vindicaites her right to that place : 

Les mains qui la paraient la parerent encore ; 
8a grace et son honnenr, quand la mort la d^vore, 
N'ai»ndomient son front ; eUe prend le bandeau ; 
Par la main on la mene embrasser le poteau ; 
Elle demeure scale, en agneau d^pouill^e. 
La lame da bourreau de son sang fat mouill^e ; 
L'ame s'enrole en haut : les anges gracieux 
Dans le sein d' Abraham la ravirent aux cieax.-j- 

Nevertheless, with all possible respect for the respectable but rather 
trite machinery (that now creaks a little in the working) of gracious 
angels and Abraham's bosom, we prefer the unvarnished finis of the old 
chronicler. And so she ended. 

I - - I I III . _^ - . w " 

* Chronicle of Queen Jane and Qneen Mary (Camden Society, 1850). 

t Les Tragiques, L iv. 

( 176 ) 



The generations of man, with all his advances in civilisation, pass 
away as in the beginning of things. Even those who are marked by 
qualifications or virtues of a superior class still fall iato thesapae objinous* 
ness. Thus the social state is continually assuming a new aspect. Fresh 
actors come upon the stage, and the more ren^arkable are p^ss^d by &x 
ever in the course of a few years, whether benefactors to their species or 
the reverse. The multitude has no time to spare for the nurture, of its 
gratitude or the out|)ourings of its censures, before it participates in the 
same sentence. Indeed, if the many had the power and U9e of reflection, 
which they never yet exhibited, the quality would be idle. Memory is 
short-lived, and monuments soon fall to pieces,* and only one thi^g is 
immortal, co-existent, in fact, with humanity, the in^peri^habje record 
upon the most perishable of materials — the fragility of the papj^r oq which 
the type of the printer is impressed — there alone can iiames ruif a race 
with time. Those who were the contemporaries of the departed walk by 
their last sojourn unregarded. Friends and enemies pass a^ay together 
without the slightest emotipn on the part of the living, who are npt re- 
minded of their own fate by that of others, however honoured^ still actiiig 
upon the sentiment of the poet: ''All men think, all fpea piprMd but 

Perhaps it is the frequency of death that renders us so. re|^ardle3s of 
its effects. We must be struck with that which is sudden apd rare» 
Familiarity subjugates fear, and the dreaded evil no more occupies the 
thoughts. Some, indeed, upon whose minds it presses, get rid of it by the 
notable resolve that as it is inevitable, it is time enough to trpiiUe tbem* 
selves about it when the evil comes. 

So much for the masses that exist and pass away unheeded, like summer 
flies; but Death equally makes his prey of those who have stood out coo* 
spicuously from among them. Their benefactors die as well as thmr 
enemies; those who have enlightened them by their talents^ toit^ 
perhaps thanklessly, for their welfare, ruled them judiciously and juslJyi 
or by latent and indirect means unostentatiously contributed to their good, 
as well as to that of the whole social body — men who may not have 
dazzled their fellows by any astonishing qualities, so as to conceal failings 
of equal magnitude, but who have supported throughout life a high cha- 
racter, perhaps on the whole preferable, and fully as beneficial to the com- 
munity, as those who flashed like meteors upon the vision, but left on 
the horizon no beneficial traces of their light after they had passed. 

These reflections are suggested by the death of a nobleman whose 
course through life was marked by that unostentatious utility which in a 
country like England is one of the most valuable any individual subject 
can possess. We allude to the late Lord Hatherton, who expired, after a 
long declining state of health, at his seat of Teddesley, in Staffordshire, 
of which fine county he was lord-lieutenant. His lordship had, indeed, 

* Nee solidis prodest sua machina terris. 

Ijord Hatherton. 177 

exceeded the prophetic age of man a year or two, hut his customary hahits 
and appearance led to the promise of a longer term of existence. It was 
early last year that he hegan to exhibit symptoms of a change in his usual 
health, which, if not immediately of much moment, was the commence- 
ment of a long and serious indisposition, to which he finally succumbed. 
His usual kindness of temper towards others did not forsake him during his 
long illness. In truth, urbanity of disposition, and exceeding good will 
towards others, were prominent traits in his character. Perhaps few public 
men had a larger circle of friends, a fact which speaks for itself the repu- 
tation of the individual. No one in public life ever passed through it 
with a Dibire amiable temperament, a clearer mind, or more active and un- 
flagging habits in public business. Without being a man of genius, he 
possessed qtialities fully, perhaps more valuable to the community in the 
sphere within which he was called upon to act by his distinguished place 
in society. Hie duties he exercised were most assiduously and correctly 
fulfilled up to the last moment he was able to perform them, indeed, too 
long exerdsed fbr the increasing advance of that insidious attack, which 
t€X>k from the dbmmunity one of its most valued members. Lord Hather- 
ton was one whom society could least spare, on many accounts, for not 
only werd his' public legislative and magisterial labours valuable, as already 
stated, but in \iiti capacity as a scholar, an agriculturist, and a hospitable 
conntnr gtotleman, no oAe willbe more missed in the county in which he 
resided — a comity the residence of some of the oldest English families, of 
which his oVirh was not one of the least noted. 

The fi&mily of Luttieton, in the reign of Henry III., were settled in 
Worcestershire. The fifth in descent from that reign was Thomas Lut- 
tleton, of Fraiikley, who was bred to the law, and w^s the first who wrote 
bis name Lyttlet6n, about 1464.' He had three sons, William, whence 
the Lords Lyttleton, Richard, and Thomas. His eldest son, William, suc- 
ceeded him. ' The second, Richard, spelled the name Littleton, and his 
desccmdaiitli tended at Pillaton Hall, Staflfordshire. The last of this 
branch. Sir Edvrard Littleton, dying in 1812, the baronetcy became ex- 
tinct, and the estates passed td \mward John Littleton, of Teddesley, then 
M.P. fdr Staffotdshu«. 

Lord Hidthertoii, from his first taking his seat in parliament, had 
always beeil Ah independent country gentleman in the fullest sense of the 
tetnl. H6 wifd dne of the small old stock bf liberal landholders who voted 
as tfiey saw fit^' according to what they deemed the true bearing of a 
question', urtaw^d by the ministry of the daj — ^the fag-end of the Pitt and 
Adding^n administration, united under Lord Liverpool. There were 
few better men of bu^ess in parliament at that time than Mr. Littleton^ 
and it is extremely probable that the independent party, to which he 
belonged, saved the country from those permanent encroachments upon 
popular freedom, which the unscrupulous disregard of every form of the 
constitution which stood in hb way made Lord Castlereagh be re- 
garded with dttch just suspicion during his whole career. When efforts 
of this nature were made, Mr. Littleton, and those who took the same 
views of the different questions brought forward by that minister, at 
once threw themselves into the breach, and, if not successful in resisting 
the efforts made, and supported by flagrant corruption, they acted as & 
restraining power. He originated many important and useful measures 

178 Lord BeMiertm. 

in parliament connected with trade, manufactures, and the working 
classes, all which he thoroughly understood. He was seated in one- ef 
the most remarkable districts of England for the magmtiide of its iron 
trade, while a little waj to the north lay the singular space of ground, com- 
prising several large towns, called the Potteries, almost unknown a few 
years ago to the rest of the country. Lord Hatherton had the sagacity 
to perceive how remarkably the extension of manufactures ai>d the value 
of land and its produce acted upon one another. The oonve3raiice8 of 
agricultural produce to large manufacturing places was easy and rapid 
in Staffordshire by canals, even before railways were brought into use. 
Teddesley, extra parochial, in the parish of Penkridge, or adjotning it, 
was thus, as it were, invited to improve itself, and its noble-mfflded owner 
did not want sagacity to perceive, what neither his own exampie nor that 
of others could be brought to credit, that free trade in all commodities 
was the spur to the increase of the value of landed property, and greatly 
for the benefit of the nation at large. In vain had the Honouralde 
Charles Villiers for a long season stood almost alone in the House of 
Commons in bringing this principle before parliament, and suppordng it 
out of doors and in the district of which we are speaking more par- 
ticnlariy.* This was at a time, too, when Sir Robert Peel could see no 
benefit from it, although his father had seen it long years* before. Lord 
Hatherton, however, not only saw the great advantage of it, bufr acted 
upon the principle as far as possible. He began to restrict his game 
preserves, and to improve his land. He reflected what maricets he had 
near him, and how facile were the conveyances. With a complete dis- 
missal of all those prejudices embraced in that caricature of soond reason, 
used upon such occasions, ^the wisdom of our ancestors,'* uppermost in 
too many stolid heads in those times, his lordship set his shower to the 
wheel, and was amply gratified l^ the result. 

It was at thifr time, or about twent^f-five years i^, that we had fifst 
the honour of his lordship's acquaintance, having gone down for the pur* 
pose of aiding in the good work, under the support of another noblemao 
of the same county. Lord Hatherton was at that time exceedingly 
active in behalf of the free-trade question. Lord Wrottesley, then Sar 
John, was another powerful siipporter, together with Lord liahfiiM and 
the Ansons. It was singular, however, that some men of note in the 
county of liberal principles in other respects, and who would not openly 
suppcnrt Sir Robert Peel in his opposition, remained neuter upon the 
point of free trade. Not so Lord Hatherton, who, when the- battle nrge^ 
fiercely, comported himself with l^at calm moderation which is exfaibitsd 
hj those clear-sighted individuals wha are conscious of their own streng^ 
of argument, and foresee the certainty of an ultimate conelusion to th«r 

Before and while the question was pending. Lord Hatherton not ei^ 
farmed highly and largely, but he *^ rollied away in his wheelliarrow," ai 
old Earl Stanhope would have said, a number of petty, injurious, and 
vexatious legislative measures, which had grown up out of tile trading 
and manufieuituring superstitions of the past, for we may not inappio- 
priatdy denominate them such. He had great weight in committees ef 

* Mr. Cobden did not mi&e his appearance as another powerful advocate of 
firee trade until long subsequently to Mr. VilUers. 

L&rd Hatherton, 179 

the House of Commons, for he was well read in parliamentary proceed* 
ings, and his judgment was excellent. He saw at a glance, before free 
trade became so heavy a question, what a number of small and vexatious 
enactments and regulations crippled not only the master manufacturer, 
but the smaller workmen. He brought in a bill for a change in the old 
pomioious truck system. He declared that the mast^:%i made fifteen per 
cent, l^ that abuse. '* I know some masters who employ five or six 
thousand men," he observed^ '^ who were about to leave off paying in 
money." A great sensation. Lord Hatherton observed^ '* had been raised 
by that injurious practice, and it was necessary to relieve the workmen 
from its baneful and demoralising influence." His lordship affirmed that 
the riots at Nottingham, and those of tlie Luddites in 1812, had their 
source in the same system. 

It waa singular that Hume opposed a measure clearly necessary to 
protect the workmen &om injustice, and that Sir Robert Peel, Mr. 
Sadler, and Mr. C. P. Thompson supported Mr. Littleton. Mr. Hume 
divided the House against it, but lost his motion. It was upon this bill 
that Mr. Littleton and O'Connell had a difference. It appeared that 
scMne reflectiona of O'Connell regarding the truck bill were erroneous. 
The member for Waterford told O'Connell that Mr. Littleton slighted 
Irekknd,. or had made use of words to that effect. Mr. Littleton replied 
tiiat he deemed it a duty, as a public man, to expose such a misrepresenta- 
tion. It appeared that the member for Waterford, Sir John Newport, if 
we recollect, rightly, had addressed Mr. Littleton, and concluded by ask- 
ing him if he had any objection to leave Ireland out of the bill ; on which 
Mr«. Littleton replied in a negligent way : " Well, I do not care about 
Ireland ;" meaning, he did not think the measure essential for that coun- 
try. This was construed by the hot blood of Irishmen at a public meet- 
ing into the sense that nobody cared about Ireland in this country. Mr. 
Littleton replied that he had a right to allude to such a misrepresentation. 

*' Have I not a right to complain, that, having done all I could to 
advance the interests of the Catholics, after the manner in which I have 
always advanced the interests of Ireland for the last eighteen years» it 
should now be necessary to defend myself from the charge of caring 
nothing about Ireland, and of being insensible to the interests of the Irish 
people. I did not believe that any man could have given utterance to a 
charge so unjust, so utterly unfounded, and so injurious to my character." 

O'Connell made an apolog}', expressing his regret that he should have 
misunderstood the honourable member, though it had at the time the 
effect upon his mind which he had ascribed to it. We do not call to 
remembrance any other instance in which Mr. Littleton's equable teipper 
was ever tried in the House of Commons. He was of all men the most, 
self-sustained and amiable, punctual in everything, and, with his quiet, firm 
line of conduct) little calculated to excite political animosity, except on 
the part of antagonists the most exceptionable. 

The manufacturers of Staffordshire must long retain a grateful memory 
of his lordship, if it were only for his success in putting down extents- 
in-aid. He had in his operations here to combat one of the most obsti- 
nate and wrong-headed of officials, in days when men of common sense, 
seeing such men in public posts, exclaimed, as of the fly in amber. 

The thing we know i& neither rich nor rare, 
But wonder how the devil it got there ! 

180 Lord Haiherton. 

It was a proof not only of Mr. Littleton's sense of justice, bat of his 
patient perseverance, at last successful by the aid of a strong party of 
friends pertinaciously keeping their object in view. In local undertakuigs 
throughout the county in which he resided, it need not be recorded that 
he was active and energetic. In canals, railroads, and all that could 
promote the fi^eneral interests of the people of all classes, his lordship was 
foremost. Chairman of some of the most important undertakings, he 
considered as well all that was submitted to him by those who were 
inventors or projectors of anything conducive to the public benefit. He 
reformed the local currency by his influence, which at one time was little 
more than tradesmen's tokens under a certain value, and, in short, brought 
his own clear intellect to bear upon questions, the benefit or the reverse 
of which involved no light responsibility. He was before his easier 
friends generally in his view of political measures, particularly those who 
seemed only to feel their way and go onward more upon the prompting 
of instinct than reason. 

Mr. Littleton had been one of the more strenuous advocates of parlia* 
mentary reform. He saw quite enough under the existing sjsitem to 
convince him of the necessity of a measure which caused the most flagrant 
abuses. He advocated religious freedom, and ardently supported dathclie 
emancipation. He was, in fact, a sincere reformer a^ a time 'when, the 
clamour was heard on every side of constitutional ruin, on the pari of 
those who did not really understand, or would sot do soiyin what <die 
constitution consisted. To this he was uniform in giving bis sapp4»l. 
There is something noble in that consistency which, seeing, almost iosurt 
mountable obstacles in its way, when compelled to pull up the rein^ wiU 
not retrograde ; that has the ccmviction it will conquer* in' the end, and 
therefore seldom fails to do so ; that can face a reverse with an imshakei 
spirit, and renew the contest with more than Antean freshness. ■ > 

That the subject of these observations should have rejoiced at -the 
accession of Mr. Canning to ofiice can hardly be doubted. He sai^in 
that accession the destruction of the hopes of a party whose Bieasnres-had 
been as much opposed to the spirit of the age as to the dictates of re«K>B. 
Whether Mr. Littleton was aware that, at the moment, tbe< tocsiarkad 
sounded the knell of extreme Toryism, it is not for us to> say. Thaths 
supported the measures for the relief of Ireland, whether brought in^by 
his own party or the Tories, was a matter of no question under; that q«iel^ 
determined spirit of patriotism which marked all his puUio conduct) shoos 
throughout his whole career, and put to shame, by its own uBpretendkig 
nature, the waverera and time-servers that were continually erosaing his 
path. There is no higher source of honest exultation for mortal msi^ 
than when standing on the verge of life, and casting a retrospective 
glance towards conduct and action fast fading in the distance, he can ssy 
to himself, " I have acted strictly in accordance with both feding and 
honour in my passage thus far. I have endeavoured to do my best with' 
the talent that my master entrusted to me. I can only charge myself 
with those failings inseparable from the nature of man, but in my public 
duties I have a clear breast." How few statesmen can make such s 
declaration. Lord Hatherton was one of the few by whom we do not 


* Possunt quia posse vldentur. 

Lord Hatherton. 181 

besitate to express a belief that declaration might have been honestly 

There was no moral corrardice in his character about that reform from 
which men of more renown would have shrunk. How Burke would have 
discharged a more than volcanic fury of anathemas upon such a sweeping 
measure, and Windham have again invoked the bull-baiters and cock- 
fighters of the *' good old times," to perform a Hockley Hole lustration 
for the introduction of Such an innovation upon the good old constitu- 
tion. Mr. Littleton, who knew his countrymen well, and was not for 
denying them the right which belonged to them, upon the clearest 
grounds of usag^e and the constitution, had no fear upon the subject of 
the restoration oontemplated by Lord Grey, even had it gone to the full 
extent which thiat noble reformer originally contemplated. In the part 
he took more immediately as the chief in the laborious portion of desig- 
nating the limits of the places represented, he performed his task, in con- 
junction with his coadjutors, with his usual assiduity. He was, indeed, 
one of the lending reformers of the time, invaluable to the ministry from 
his fidi^Hty to hw party, th^ enlig'htefned character of his views, his close 
attentibh to business, and his knowledge of the different phases of feeling 
and tlsag^din the agridultnral and manufactmring distncts. 

Lord Hatherton' was not only an invaluable public man in a political 
sense, an ^earnest liberal, but a thorough adept in all that coiicemed the 
agvicultural and manufacturing interesfts of his native land. He farmed 
largely, and was- in a contitiu^ interchange of discoveries and improve- 
ments with %hd more noted agnculturists of his tim& He was a good 
seholar, andfiKyssessed an exo^lent library at Teddesley, where he usually 
kept i)p his gene1*a( and Christmas hospitality in particular, in the true 
style of an £n^)ish country gentleman, a position in life of which, if all 
80 circumstanoed were duly sen^bre(Q fortunatos liimium, sua si bona 
fiovint Agriooks !), they would thank God for their lot. 

Mr.'LiTtleton was chief seeretary for Ireland under the lord-lieutenancy 
cf the Idarqins'Wellesley,: whose daughter ^as his first wife, and by whom 
he left tf SOD, £dward Richard Littleton, his succesisor in his title and 
Estates.' Never was there a more difiicult time for the fulfilment of botli 
offices than that of his Irish appointment. The agitation for the repeal 
<^ 'the Union - was at its height.' The lord-lieutenant and secretary were 
ak>ne iti iagfreement. There were differences in the cabinet, O'Connell 
wieldmgali'hiS' weapons of antiOyatice',' not without effect. The ruling 
powers on the spot saw no need of that apprehensive policy which they 
feai*ed «ould otily tend to exacerbate, at)d remonstrated unsuccessfully 
against -renewing the Coercion bill. The ministry itself was by no means 
a compact body in agreement, even upon main points. During this 
emergency. Lord Stanley and other members of the cabinet retired; 
among thenii Was Sir James Graham. Lord Stanley, since the Earl of 
Derby, it 'was said, gave way to the old cry of ** the Church in danger," 
among other reasons, real or affected, for his desertion of his old prin- 
ciples and friends. In the end, the obnoxious act was introduced, and 
the conse(|tience8 foreseen eiisuedl 

It was during these perplexities of the cabinet that Mr. Littleton 
was accused of making known to O'Connell, in an indiscreet way, at a 
personal meeting, the disunited state of the cabinet. 0*Connell turned 

182 Lard HaAerUnt. 

the retolt to his own advantage. Mr. Littleton had been too open in 
dealing with a crafty politician, the whole breed of which, in all lands 
and times, have rarely indeed hesitated to sacrifice a confiding disposition 
if a profit conld be made of it. There was about Lord Hatherton exactly 
that principle of honour and kind confiding disposition, of which a fully 
ripe diplomatist or minister, not, like Moloch, unversed in wiles, might 
sooner make a yictim, than of one of his own wary and ciremnyentmg 
temper. It was not possible for Mr. Littleton to do otherwise ^an give 
up his post, and the retirement of the ministry followed. 

He held no office under Lord Melbourne's administration, though he 
sat for South Staffordshire. He soon after received the peerage, and cer- 
tainly no one who had a value for such an honour more deservedly merited 
it for his public services. It was in 1835 that he was created Baron 
Hatherton. He was subsequently appointed Lord-Lieutenant of Staf- 
fordshire, the duties of which office he performed for between eight and 
nine years, with his customary assiduity. 

Lord Hatherton married a second time, in 1852, Mrs. Davenport, the 
relict of EM ward Davies Davenport, Esq., of Caperthome, a lady wdl 
meriting his lordship's choice, by rendering to him and partaking in return 
those consolations and comforts which sweeten the later period of human 
existence, when the days come upon our humanity in which it proclaims 
it has comparatively so little pleasure. 

We know not the exact nature of the complaint which deprived a host 
of friends and well-wishers, if it were only from the kindliness of his 
nature, of his lordship's presence. A knowledge of twenty-five years 
gives us some ground to form an estimate of human character, and we 
can only look back upon that term \inth a saddened feeling, and deeply 
regfret his country should have been deprived of him at a time when 
human life, it has pleased G^, has become more protracted than in the 
days of our fathers. If the manners and feelings of an open-hearted 
nobleman, one who honoured the peerage much more than the peerage 
could honour him ; if candour, incapacity of craft, generous emotions, a 
high sense of duty, and strict performance of it ; if urbanity of manner, 
joined with great aptitude for public business, and a sound judgment, a 
spirit incapable of guile, and a clear understanding of the true interests of 
the country, were united in any individual character to so great a degree 
as in Lord Hatherton, the example must be rare, and the magnitude of 
such a loss be indeed largely felt. We have never encountered — ^we own 
it — a second example in any walk of life that can be styled his lordship's 
parallel in those points by which he was most generally known and best 

( 183 ) 


The names of celebrated families form a portion of the national glory, 
and justly occupy the first place in the pages of history. Honour, above 
all, is due to the son who worthily represents the title which his ancestors 
obtained by their services to the country, or the prince, the representative 
of that country. Respect for ancestors strengthens the feeling of self- 
respect, and in this sense the motto noblesse oblige is to be understood. 

When we follow in history the career of national celebrities, or regard 
the varied origin and peculiar fortunes of noble families, we cannot refrain 
from reflecting on the political, social, and moral influence of the nobility. 
Is the magic of noble birth increasing or decreasing ? Is it a benefit or 
1^ misfortune for humanity? Should it be supported in old states or de- 
stroyed in new ones? Is it a material component of a constitutional 
monarchy? Is it adverse to republican liberty? How have hereditary 
distinctions and old birth benefited civilisation, science, literature, and 
the arts P When we allow — and it would be difficult to deny it— that 
the privileged classes have done the state eminent service at certain times» 
must we, on. the other side, declare that their career, like that of the 
mediaeval monastic orders, is worn out, or that it is aa impediment to 
the progress of enlightenment, since we have possessed representai;ive 
assemblies and liberty of the press? Finally, when was pride in ancestry 
carried to the highest pitch, and what was its most substantial basis ? 

At the present day the histories of families are traced more zealously 
than ever, and not alone in the Old World : the search after genealogical 
trees has now become fashionable also in the United States. It would 
be an idle task to defend genealogical studies against conventional accu* 
sations. These studies, which are stated to be dry and sterile, are rooted 
in feelings, inclinations, or prejudices inseparable from human nature. 
We will not be too eager to trace in this a mental weakness : we re- 
member that Lord Byron was prouder of his birth than of his poems, and 
that the author of *' Waverley" spent his entire fortune in order to found 
a line of Scotch feudal lords. And yet how chimerical is such a hope ? 
How often is this ambition deluded ? The contemporaries of Byron saw 
Newstead change owners twice, and the Scotts of Waverley have, in 
the feudal sense of the term, ceased to exist. If we run over the cele- 
brated names of England, we are astonished to see how few of them are 
represented by male descendants. Chaucer, Shakspeare, Spenser, Raleigh, 
Dryden, Pope, Addison, Bacon, Locke, Newton, Hampden, Blake, Marl- 
borough, Nelson, Clarendon, Hume, Goldsmith, Burke, Pitt, and Fox 
belong to the list, and we could lengthen it ad infiniiim. The majority 
of these prominent men have left no descendants. 

. In our opinion the nobility, based on a social agreement, ceases to exist 
if it is not confined to very narrow bounds. Otherwise, it resembles the 
circles produced by throwing a stone into the water, which disappear as 
they become wider spread. This occurs when the nobility goes on in the 
female line. In order to judge with what speed the most renowned blood 
is extended by marriage and female descent, it is sufficient to refer to the 
great number of persons who indubitably have in their veins a few drops 

184 The English Nobility. 

of the royal blood of England : they are reckoned by tens of thousands. 
Sir Bernard Burke says, that among the descendants of Edmond of 
Woodstock, Earl of Kent and sixth son of Edward I., who only left 
daughters on his demise, were a Mr. Joseph Smart, butcher at the village 
of Hales Green, and a Mr. Wilmot, turnpike-keeper near Dudley. Jacob 
Fenny, a sexton at St. George's Church, in London, is descended from 
the female line of Thomas Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester, fifth son of 
Edward, and he gave his eldest son, when christened, the name of Plan- 
tagenet. Through a single misalliance the ruin of a family is rapidly 
entailed. In 1637, a son of the great grandson of Margaret Plantagenet, 
daughter and heiress of the Duke of Clarence, was a soap-boiler a.t New- 
port. If this descendant of kings had married and left children, he coold 
nave stocked England with ragged or barefooted little Plantagenets. 
Duke Bernard of Norfolk one day had the notion of inviting all the 
descendants of the Norfolk, who was the friend of Richard III., to 
dinner, but gave it up again on seeing, from an imperfect list, that 
their number exceeded six hundred. AH the true Howards have the right 
of quartering the royal arms, through their descent from Margaret 
Mowbray, who married the head of their family. In 1854, jl genealo- 
gical list was drawn up of all the persons quartering the arms of the 
various dynasties that have reigned in England: the most ignorant amateur 
in English heraldry is aware how easy it is to prove a descent in the 
female line from Edward I., Edward III., or Henry III. American 
genealogists declare that Washington was also descended from English 
kings. In Corsica, a saint of the name of Napoleon has been found in 
the calendar for the Bonaparte family, and in the Italian archives a race 
of Bonapartes, who go back beyond the twelfth century. So rouoh is 
certain, that every man who can reckon back to the, sixteenth member 
has 65,686 paternal and maternal ancestors, and that in this number 
there will be the most respected as well as the most unworthy persons. / 

The Dukes of Northumberland carry their heads as high as if th^y 
were descended in the direct male line from the northern Percys. 3tili 
that line of the English branch of the family was extinct so far bitcl^ as 
Henry I., when Agnes Percy, daughter of the third lord of that name, 
married the son of the Duke de Brabant, Jocelin of Louvain^ who a^ssumed 
the name and ai*ms of the Percys. No other feudal family has played a 
more important part, or been more mixed up in the troubles which harassed 
England. Possessing, as the family did, such large estates and widely 
extending influence, it was impossible for them to avoid taking, part in 
the political or relig^ious disputes, and they would have required more 
luok than sen^ if they wished to be always on the conquering side ; but 
it must be allowed that the Percys had a special vocation for rushing iuto 
conspiracies and revolts. At one moment they took part in insurrections, 
when these came in their way ; at others they were the actual originators 
of them ; and among them a natural death in bed was rather an exc^ 
tion than the rule. 

The first Earl of Northumberland was killed at Braham Moor, his 
brother was beheaded, and his son Hotspur killed in the battle of Shrews- 
bury : the second fell at St. Al ban's, the third at Towton, and the fourth 
murdered in a rebellion : the fifth, it is true, died in his bed, but, to make 
up for that, his second son was executed at Tyburn, and his eldest died 

The English Nobility. 185 

of grief and misery. After him the fortunes of the family seemed 
to pale : his estates and titles were given to a Dudley, but when the latter 
in his turn was condemned to lose them, they were returned to the Earl 
of Northumberland as legal heir. He had, however, learned nothing from 
his misfortunes, but took part in an insurrection against Queen Elizabeth, 
and lost his life on the scaffold. The eighth earl was imprisoned in the 
Tower for acting on behalf of Mary Stuart, where he either committed 
suicide or was murdered. The ninth, as a partner in the gunpowder plot, 
was condemned to pay a fine of 30,000/., and imprisonment for life^ 
The eleventh and last representative of the English male line left only a 
daughter, whoise life career was as strange and adventurous as that of her 
father. At the age of sixteen she had been twice a widow, and married 
for the third time. At the age of thirteen she was affianced to the youifg 
Duke of Newcastle, who died a few months later. The second husband 
selected for her was Thynne of Longleat, but this marriage was not con- 
summated, because the notorious Cotmt KOnigsmarck, who was after the 
rich heiress, had her betrothed killed. Still the heiress escaped him, for 
she married the proud Duke of Somerset, who at a later date, when his 
second wife, a Miss Finch, tapped him on the shoulder, or, according 
to others, sat down in his lap, said, angrily, '' Madam, my first wife was 
a Percy, but she would have never taken such a liberty.'' 

The first Duchess of Somerset is best known by the circumstances that 
she persuaded Queen Anne not to give Swift a bishopric. In this way 
she avenged herself on Swift, who had ridiculed her red hair, and accused 
h6r of having been an accomplice in the murder of Thynne, her betrothed. 
'^ It is not known,'* says Walter Scott, ^ whether she was most infuriated 
at the ridfcule or at the other accusation, which was only founded on 
Swift's malice.'^ The estates and title of Northumberland then passed 
through the sole heiress to Hugh Smithson, a baronet of good family in 
Yorkshires His son, who was dissatisfied at not having the Garter in 
addition to all his other honours, complained bitterly about it to 
Q-eorge III., remarking that he was the first Duke of Northumberland 
to whom the order had been refused. "Certainly,** the king replied; 
*' but you are also the first Smithson who ever asked for it." This i^ the 
only joke of which George III. was ever guilty. 

The story of the Nevilles shows us the most remarkable changes of 
fortune, if we compare the position of the great Elarl df Warwick, the 
king-maker, with that of his descendant, Charles Neville, the sixth Earl 
of Westmoreland, in 1 572. The last of the barons (as Sir Lytton Bulwer 
calls the king-maker) enjoyed an income of 300,OC)0/., and kept an open 
table in his castles for thirty thousand persons daily. His descendant 
lived in the Netherlands on a small pension which the King of Spain 
g^nted him, and Lord Seton speaks in a letter to Mary Stuart of his 
extreme poverty. He died in misery, and without male descent, in 

Misfortune seems also to have dogged the Dukes of Buckingham. 
The first who bore this title, Humphrey de Stafford, fell with his eldest 
son in the wars of the Roses. His second son and successor was the 
friend and victim of Richard III. Shakspeare has preserved for us the 
sad fate of the third duke. He had foolishly defied Wolsey, who con- 
trived to bring a charge of high treason against him, and he was be- 

186 The Englis/i Nobility. 

beaded on Tower Hill. Villiers, to whom the title was given, fell bj 
Felton's knife : a sad ending for a man who had dared to declare his love 
to a queen of France. Pope makes a sneering comment on the death ef 
another Duke of Buckingham, in lines familiar to our readers. But hii 
was a poetic licence, for the duke really died in the best bedroom of hb 
steward's house. The literary productions of Sheffield, who was made 
Duke of Buckingham in 1703, cast a lustre over his ducal crown. EBs 
family expired in the person of his son, who died at Rome of a chesfc 

The Cromwells furnish an example of the greatest Novation asd 
deepest fall. Dugdale says that Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex, who 
bore the sobriquet of the '* Hammer of Monasteries," was the son of a 
blacksmith at Putney, and s^ved under the Constable de Bourbon at the 
uege of Rome. As he had no children, he adopted a nephew of the 
name of Richard Williams, who assumed his name, and beoame head and 
founder of the family. There are ^ve representatives between him and 
Oliver Cromwell, whose story we may pass over. The sudden fall and 
utter disappearance of this family is a most remarkable circimistance. 
The Lord Protector had four sons and four daugbters ; two of these soni 
survived him : Richard, who followed him in the protectorship ; and 
Henry, who was governor of Ireland. Richard, whose government onfy 
lasted eight months, passed twenty years in exile, and it is bcAieved t^at, 
on his retturn to England, he lived in seclusion under the name of Clarke. 
According to an anecdote told by Miss Hawkins, Richard Oromwell, ia 
1705, had a trial in the Court of Chancery, and as the 'Counsel for the 
ofmosite party alluded in no complimentary terms to the nsfrae of Crom- 
well, Lord Chancellor Cowper asked whether Mr. Cromwell were ia 
court ; on receiving an answer in the affirmative, the chancellor invited 
him to take a seat by his nde, through which step the counsel was int* 
duced to check his anti-republican eloquence. He (£led in 1712, and left 
only two daughters. Henry, the ex-governor of Ireland, lived, till his 
death in 1673, at his estate, Spinney Abbey, and left five sons and three 
daughters. All his sons died childless with the exception of one, who^ 
after he had squandered all his property, wrote to his aunt Lady Fancon- 
berg : '' Our family has sunk deep, ana there are people who assert tiwt 
it is just ; still, I know that we belong to a race which is <^der than 
many others." His son became a grocer on Snow-hill, and died ia 1748, 
leaving only one son, christened Oliver, who was a simple derk in the 
offices of St. Thomas's Hospital. This Oliver Cromwell died in 1821^ 
and had one daughter, who married Mr. Russell, of Cheshunt Park. 
Among Cromwell's descendants in the female line, we may mention a 
basket-maker at Cork, one married to a shoemaker, another to the son of 
a butcher, with whom she was in service in the same house. 

It has recently been publicly stated that a descendant of Simon de 
Montfort is a saddler in Tooley-street, and that the heir of Earl of Mar 
— an earl whose origin is lost in the mists of antiquity — has been dis- 
covered in the garb of a collier. A bricklayer's labourer might have 
asserted a claim to the earldom of Crawford. Hugh Miller, who was 
also a bricklayer in early life, often heard the following words addressed 
to Crawford : " Heh, John Earl of Crawford, bring the hod here ! hand 
me the trowel!" The father of the last Earl of Glengall was a baker% 
apprentice when he heard what honours awaited him. 

The English Nobility. 187 

The Drummond family is remarkable among^ those which, though sub- 
jected to hard trials, ever retained sufficient strength to rise again : for- 
tiuiately it found a chronicler, whose sympathy and talent befitted him, 
more than any other, to write its annals. The genealogy of the Drum- 
monds begins with a scion of the royal house of Hungary (probably 
a descendant of Attila) of the name of Maurice, who was captain of the 
ship in which Ekigar Atheling and his sisters sailed across the sea to 
Hungary. One of the ladies, Margaret Atheling, married Malcolm Can« 
more, King of Scotland, who gave Maurice the estates of Drymen and 
Drummond in the county of Dumbarton. Whatever truth there may be 
in this origin, the rank which the family attained certainly agrees with it. 
Without referring to its direct and indirect connesions with the Bourbons^ 
Bruces, Stuarts, and other royal or princely houses, it ^ve Scotland a 
queen, and figures in all the grades of the peerage. The partial decay of 
the family £;>rtunes dates from the Revolution of 1688, when the head of 
the Drummonds clung to the fallen djnaasty, without taking the usual 
precaution in Scotland of letting an influential member of the family join 
the opposite side. This led to the banishment of the Drummonds ; their 
peerage was legally extinguished, and they received but a poor compensa- 
tion for it in the dignities which the exiled king goranted them at St. 
Germain. After the Union, Andrew Drummond settled in London. He 
was a clever man of business, and had a well-earned reputation for 
honesty ; and hence most of the Jacobites placed their money afiairs in 
his hands. This was the origin of the celebrated banking firm. The 
founder of the house, be it remarked, however, in his later years, always 
drew a marked distinction between a banker and a gentleman compelled 
by circumstances to take part in banking operations. Just in the same 
way the father of the bourgeois gentilhomme was not a cloth-dealer, but 
merely kept in his house a stock of cloth which he exchanged for gold, 
solely to oblige his friends. 

The position of the Drummonds leads us to the question, how far any 
one dishonours his nobility by entering into trade. In Grermany and 
Spain it is generally assumed that such employment is degrading, but 
such was not the case with the patricians of Venice and Genoa. In 
!EVance, a noble who went into trade was obliged to lay aside his sword, 
and could ^only resume it when he retired from business. In England, 
eyen Pitt, who always remained Mr. Pitt, made it a condition, on raising 
the head of the banking firm of Smith and Co. to the peerage, as Lord 
Carrington, that he should retire from business. This was the express 
desire of George III., who had German prejudices as regards rank and 
titles. Lords Ashburnham and Qverstone gave up business when they 
entered the Upper House, although no condition to that effect was 
made. Still, the name of a banker or man of business is always most 
honourable in England. 

It would be wrong to belieye that at the head of eyery genealogy in 
England we must find a nobleman dating back to the Norman conquest. 
If we may follow Augustine Thierry and the authorities he quotes, the 
army of William the Conqueror was mainly composed of low-<born adven- 
turers, whom he collected around him by the prospect of loot : suttlers 
and camp-followers may have clothed themselves in the spoils of the 
enemy, presented themselves as cavaliers, and in that quality obtained 

188 The English Nobility. 

"The neatherds of Normandy, and the Flanders weavers," writes 
Thierry, " could, with a little courage and good luck, become brilliant 
barons in England, and their names, which on one side of the Channel 
were common and unknown, became noble and glorious on the other. 
Would you like to know, says an old French chronicler, what were 
the names of the great arrivals under the conqueror William ? Here 
follow the names as they were written, but without the christian names, 
which are often missing, or altered : Mandeville and Dandeville, Omfire* 
ville and Domfreville, Bouteville and Estouteville, Mohun and Bohon, 
Biset and Baset, Malin and Malvoisin. ... In one of these lists the 
names are given in groups of three : Bastard, Brassard, Braynard ; Bigot, 
Bagot, Talbot ; Toret, Trivet, Bonet ; Lucy, Lacy, Percy. . . . Another 
list of the conquerors of England, which was long preserved at Battle 
Abbey, contains names of a low and equivocal nature, such as Bonvilain 
and Boutevilain, Trousselot and Troussebout, L'Engaine and Longoe 
Ep^e, Oeil de Bceuf and Front de Boeuf." 

Five or six generations are certainly sufficient to satisfy the ambition 
of any man, and so long an interval is not even necessary to acquire 
universal respect for names, which are connected in the history of the 
country with instances of courage, genius, or patriotism. The celebrated 
family of the Russells does not require to bring down its genealogy (rom 
the Lords of Rozel, and it is sufficient to assume that it is descended 
from John Russell, Constable of the Castle of Curfew in 1221. Shak*- 
speare, by bringing the names of the Talbots, Stanleys, Cliffbrds, 
Nevilles, Greys, Blounts, and Vernons on the stage, did more for them' 
than the whole College of Heralds. Gibbon is of opinion that the 
Spenser family should regard the Faerie Queene as the finest part of 
their arms, and says that the romance of Tom Jones will survive the 
imperial eagle of the house of Hapsburg, of which the Fieldiugs de- 
clared themselves a branch. No one in France wonld now deny that til6 
Book of Maxims is the finest pearl in the ducal crown of the Rochefba- 
caulds, and the Memoirs of St. Simon have imparted greater lustre to 
his name than his presidency in parliament or in the chapel of Ver- 

Heroic deeds, adventures, misfortunes, and perhaps unusual crimelL 
generally do more than peaceful virtues to render a family I'emarkable, aiM 
distinguish it from the great mass. Many lords and baronets have |^tn^ 
a title of honour through sentences passed on their ancestors, or by (ilad* 
dering monasteries, in which the Pophams, Homers, and Thynnes playd 
so great a part. If we find the Burdetts holding knightly rank siiK^ 
the reign of Edward IV., it comes from the fact that Sir Robert Burdett 
was condemned to death for conspiring against the life of that princet 
If the Fulfords are denied any share in the Crusades, they can at least 
display the written capitulation by virtue of which they surrendered their 
castle to Fairfax after a gallant defence. The crest of the Stanleys 
consists of an eagle feeding a child. Tradition tells us that a child of the 
Latham family, who surrendered their seat of Knowsley to the Stanleys, 
was exposed on a mountain, and owed its life to this strange nurse. 

The motto of the Leslies, ^* Grip fast," was given them by Margaret, 
consort of King Malcolm Canmore, because, when crossing a swolka 
ford she fell from her horse, and was on the point of drowniog, when 

The English Nobility. 189 

Bartholomew Leslie seized her by the girdle, and brought her ashore. 
^Richard de Percival followed Coeur de Lion to Palestine, and sat his 
horse even after he had lost a leg in action; another scimitar-cut lopped 
off an arm, but for all that he kept his seat, and held his bridle between 
the teeth^ For this reason this family has as device an armed man with 
only one leg. This emblem may be seen emblazoned on the windows 
of their seat at Weston. If this story be true, we cannot doubt the one 
told by Lamartine, that General Lesourd, at the battle of Waterloo, 
after receiving six sabre-cuts, got off his horse, had his arm amputated, 
mounted his horse once more, and attacked afresh at the head of his 

Many bourgeois and even peasant families can trace their genealogy 
back £ar into aAtiquity. We are told of a pastrycook in Brighton, that 
he has a.&rm in Sussex, which has been in liis family since the reign of 
Henry I. The direct descendant of the woodcutter who helped to carry 
William IL, when shot, into a neighbouriog hut, is still living in the 
▼icijiity of Southampton. 

In very rms^n^ cases traditions must no|; be absolutely rejected, for they 
are often th^^le and best testimony to facts which could not be esta- 
blished in any other way; but when family pride speculates on the 
credulity of pe^le, it is surely permissible to doubt. We are not bound 
to believe everything that the bards i^jid minstrels have sung in praise of 
their ^asters^ whose genealogists they have eventually become. As they 
were paid to glorify their patrons and keep them in good humour, they 
did pot hesjta^ toiadorn the truth. If we were to belieive these poetical 
chronipletrs, i^arly all the chiefs of Scottish clans were descended from 
kings, and thi^ir ancestors were contemporaries of those monarohs whose 
portraits or caricatures decorate the walls of Holy Rood; for instance, 
Fergus, ;Whp i^ said to have ascended the Scottish throne exactly six years 
aj^r.the deMh of Alexander the Great. Among the Scotch genealogies 
that oj^ th? SMiarts is most amusing, for, they are proved to descend in a 
direct line frqm Cecrops, King of Athens. . Unluckily, these genealogies 
of. the bai^^.con^ntly contradict one another, and some clans — for 
instance, the M* Ivors — are divided between two rivals, both of whom 
di^ipd tlie :fl|up};f9iaay. A Glengarry wrote to the second Lord Macdonald 
to den^aud tl^ djgnity of head of the clan, but received the following 
laconic i9Lnfliw«r :.'* Until you can prove to me that you are my chief, I 
reni^n, yours, Maqdonaxp." 

Th/e successipn in the male line rendered it highly desirable for every 
Scot to settle all his degrees of relationship, even the most remote, for a 
number of accidents might unexpectedly render him heir to rich estates* 
In spite of this law and custom, however, many large fiefs have been lost 
by the mfJe line of their former holders. The royal branch of the Bruces 
is jextincti but the present Bruces, the Earl of Elgin and the Marquis of 
Aylesbury, are descended ^m Robert Bruce, to whom King David II. 
gave the castle and estate of Clackmannan, as his loving and faithful 
cousin. The name of the Grahams, who have become Dukes of Montrose, 
appears for the first time in William de Graham, who is produced as a 
witness in a deed of the year 1 128. He was doubtless a respected person : 
at any rate, a title seven or eight generations old is an inheritance with 
which the descendants of the great Montrose may surely be satisfied. 

June — ^voi*. cxxYiii. no. dx. o 

190 The Engliah Nobility. 

Very curious is the origin of the emblems which the Kirkpatricks of 
Closebum bear in their coat — namely, a bloody dagger, with the motto^ 
^' I mak sicker.'' The story of its origin is as follows : Soger Earic- 
patrick met Robert Bruce just coming out of the church in whidi ks 
had stabbed Comyn. '^ I belieye I have killed him," said Bruce. '^ You 
only believe it," ELirkpatrick replied, ''but I will mak sicker." And, 
entering the church, he dealt Comyn the death-blow on the steps of the 

All Europe knows at present that the Countess of Montijo, mother of 
the Empress of France, is a Kirkpatrick. When the fonni«r lady wis 
about to be married to the son of a Spanish gprandee, she was requested 
to produce her genealogy, and Charles Eorkpatrick procured it for her, 
duly attested by the Scotch heralds. When the document was laid befovr 
King Ferdinand VII., he exclaimed, " Of course we permit young 
Montijo to marry the daughter of FingaL" 

If we were asked what country has seen the most mariced changes in 
the fortunes of its nobility, we should unhesitatingly say Ireland. That 
unhappy island has been subjected to confiscations unexampled in history, 
and every fresh proscription entailed the downfiEd or disappearance of 
families, which had up to that time been powerful and celel»ttted by the 
native bards. A proof of the systematic misfortune that has weighed 
down the Irish families is found in the list of Irish peers^ which only eon- 
tains four old Irish names : O'Neil, O'Brien, O'Grady, and O'Caliaghan. 
Still Ulster believes that, with the exception of the O'Laughlins, the five 
or six royal families that divided the island between them have all repr»* 
sentatives. The last of the Maguires, Piinces of Fermanagh, was killed 
in 1660 in a battie with the English troops. A few years ago a legasy 
was leflk to his direct heirs, and so many Maguires came forward that the 
payment of the leg^y was declared to be impossible. 

The great Norman families that took part in the conquest c^ Ireland 
have been preserved better in proportion to their number tkan those 
which conquered England. The present De Burghs, the St* Lawienoes» 
the Butlers, Westmeaths, Talbots of Malahide, Brabaaons, EitigeraU^ 
and Fitzmaurices, are descended in a direct line from brave barons, who 
founded their family in the twelfth century. John Constasline dt 
Courcy, Lord Kinsale, premier baron of Ireland, is descended from Sir 
John de Courcy, who was made Elarl of Ulster in 1181. When this 
John de Courcy was attacked by twenty armed men in the ch«rchyaid of 
Downpatrick, he tore up a heavy oak cross, and, with tlus imjNrovised 
club, killed twelve of his opponents. He also displayed his eeurage and 
enormous strength in fighting for King John, who, in return, gave him 
the hereditary privilege of remaining covered in the presence of the sov*> 
reign. When Almeric, the twenty*third baron, on the arrival of Wil- 
liam III., made use of his privilege, the monarch inquired what sock 
free and easy conduct meant ; and when he received the explanatioa, he 
remarked, ratherly bitterly, '* Your lordship can keep on your hat in my 
presence, if you think it becoming, but I hope you will take it off to the 
queen." When Louis XIV., after the battle of Fontenoy, came up to the 
spot where the captured English officers were standing, the latter all 
raised their hats, with the exception of Lord Courcy. After the king had 
heard the cause of this strange behaviour, he said, with his studied polite- 
ness, *< My lord, will you dine with me?" " I am not hungry." " I do 

The English Nobility, 191 

not ask whether you are hungry, but whether you will dine with me," 
Louis XIV. replied, and turned his back on the ill-bred nobleman. 

The most powerful of the Anglo-Normans who settled in Ireland were 
the Fit^eralds and the Butlers. There was a time when the Butlers held 
eight peerages in the yarious branches of their house, and the Fitz- 
geralds, who were settled in the centre and south of the island, compared 
themselves to a tree whose branches overshadowed it. The Marquis of 
Kildare published, in 1858, a history of his family. Would that any 
equally skilfol pen would write the annals of the Earls of Desmond, which 
are sa rich in romantic episodes. Changes of fortune are exceedingly 
nunterous m this family. The sixth earl was disinherited by his uncle 
for marrying a girl of low birth : the great Earl of Desmond exclaimed, 
as he was being borne from the field on the shoulders of Ormond's sol- 
diefs, '^ I am in my right place, on the neck of the Butlers." Eventually 
the last earl, who had an income of 40,000/. from his estates, staked 
everything on an insurrection, and perished miserably through the trea- 
chery of a renegade. 

The Irish gentleman who received the title of the great Ekrl of Cork 
himself tells us that he came to Dublin in 1558 with his entire fortune, 
consisting of 27/. in his pocket, a diamond ring, a gold bracelet, a pair of 
black velvet trunk hose, two cloaks, the necessary changes of linen, and 
a sword. Two years before his death, in 1641, he was the owner of 
castles, domains, parks, and other landed property, which produced him 
an income of 50/. a day. Though he was greatly aided by fortune, his 
cleverness did him equally good service. Over the door of one of his 
castlea may be seen his coat-of-arms, with the motto, ^' The providence 
of God is my inheritance." He might also have used the motto, " Aide 
tot et Dieu t'aidera." 

The splendid estates of the Powerscourts were given to their ancestor 
by Queen Elizabeth, who robbed the O'Tooles of them. He had the 
flattering auda^ty to ask this queen, who combined the greatest feminine 
vanity with masculine strength, for the scarf she was wearing, which he 
considered more precious than all the dignities and estates she had just 
given him. He is represented in an old portrait wearing this scarf as a 
sword-belt. The scarf itself was hung up under the portrait until the 
aunt of the last Viscount Powerscourt cut it up to cover footstools with. 
The old lady could never be brought to understand what wrong she had 
done by sneh treatment of this historic relic. 

To com{dete our remarks about the Irish nobility, we must refer to the 
gentlemen who left their country in consequence of the political persecu- 
tions after the dethronement of James, and spread over many continental 
states. In 1692, fifteen or twenty thousand Irish, who had been raised 
for James II., passed into the service of Louis XIV. Their ofiieers were 
Catholic gentlemen, and these troops constantly distinguished themselves. 
When Marshal ViUeroi was surprised and made prisoner at Cremona, the 
Irish, under the command of an O'Mahony, retrieved the fortunes of the 
day, and drove the battalions of Prince Eugene out of the city. In the 
list of the knights of St. Louis we find Irish names on every page. At 
the present day there is a marshal of Irish origin in France, MacMahon, 
ond in Austria, Nugent, and one in Spain, O'DonnelL 

The exaggerated pretensions dF the gentry of Wales as to the age of 
their familiiBS are based on no solid foundation, and the want of written 


192 The English Nobility. 

documents, and even of at all credible traditions, has led their genealogists 
into the most improbable fables when they attempt to go beyond the six- 
teenth century. The family tree of the Mostyns of Mostyn, which has 
been preserved in their archives for three centuries, is writtea on parch- 
ment decorated with drawings, and is more than seventy feet long, and 
one foot in width. It begins with the patriarch Noah (why not with 
Adam ?), passes with but few exceptions thmugh all the princely houses 
mentioned in the Bible, divides into sundry imperial and royal branches, 
and at length comes to the Edwards, Kings of England, where it stops. 
Sir Bernard Burke has performed an equally useless labour by following 
the Tudors through the mists of the first period of Welsh history^ in order 
to adorn the family tree of an orator and author, who in no way needed 
such glorification. From the moment when an ancestor of Sir Bulwer 
Lytton married a real Tudor, we can dispense with her deriving her 
descent from persons who ruled in Wales in the sixth century, and who 
had names which it is utterly impossible to pronounce. 

Benthara and his scholars asserted that the lords and gentry of the 
three kingdoms were mushrooms when compared with the continental 
nobility, and add, that if a people is to be oppressed and plundered by a 
noble caste, the latter should at least be the real sort. These strong- 
minded gentlemen have no great cause of complaint, for Great Britain 
in this respect does not stand far behind other countries* 

The asserted superiority of the continental nobility disappears when 
it is subjected to the same investigation as the British nobility. How* 
ever far back a family may go, we must come at last to some plebeian 
who founded its renown and power; furthermore, Gibbon remarks that 
it is almost impossible to prove a pedigree by names, arms, and authentic 
documents much beyond the tenth century of the Christian era. Jt is 
said that the Dukes of Lewis, in France, boasted of being descended from 
the princes of the House of Judah, and that they showed an old painting, 
on which one of these ancestors stands with up^raised hat before the 
Virgin, who says to him : " Cover yourself, cousin." The Dukes of 
Croy have a worthy counterpart to this picture in a representation of the 
Deluge, where a drowning man is shouting to Noah, wlio is on the point 
of entering the ark, ^* Save the archives of the House of Croy." Nothing, 
however, surpasses the pedigree of the Yaldez in Spain ; it begins thus: 
^' First was Yaldez I.; his successor was Valdez II.; then came Yaldez 
III. ; about this period God created the world." A French bishop, 
notorious for his vanity, is said to have replied to the serious exhortations 
of his confessor : '* Nonsense, God will never have the courage to con- 
demn a Clermont Tonnerre I" 

The pretensions of the Montmorency s are tolerably well known. Their 
nobility does not require to be surrounded by a feigned halo in order to 
heighten it. One of their ancestors manned the widow of a King of 
France ; they gave their country several conn6tables : one of the manhals 
of their name was no more and no less than that Duke of Luxembourg, 
whom the people christened the Upholsterer of Notre-Dame, because his 
victories had covered the walls of that church with so many flags. There 
is, however, no certain confirmation that a Montmorency existed before 
the middle of the tenth century, and their title of 6rst Christian baron 
cannot be supported or understood, if it be asserted that their ancestor 
was the first Christian raised to the rank of baron, or the first baron who 

The EvgKsh Nolility. 193 

became a Christian. The title of first baron of France could be better 
explained if we understood by France the province of He de France, in 
which the old seigpieury of Montmorency is situated. The pride of a 
French nobleman chiefly consists in the fact of being descended from one 
of the counts, dukes, or princes who occupied the great territorial domains 
under monarchy. The Dukes de Gramont retained their sovereignty 
over Bidacbe up to the year 1781. The pretensions raised at the pre* 
sent time in France consist in having had an ancestor at the Crusades, 
and we find in the Annuaire de la Noblesse a number of names claiming 
this honour ; but it cannot be decided with certainty, except in the case 
of families whose arms are visible in the Hall of the Crusades at Ver- 

The oldest and most illustrious of all great families, says Gibbon, is 
indubitably the French royal house : it has sat on the throne for above 
a thousand years, and has a direct descent from male to male since the 
middle of the ninth century. Bonaparte, in 1808, created a new nobility 
in France, and distributed the titles of dukes, counts, and barons, but not 
those of marquis and viscount — several old marquises were forced to con- 
tent themselves with the title of count, or even of baron. The hereditary 
peerage was destroyed in 1831, and all titles were abolished in 1848. 
The new Empire restored them, and the present laws regard names and 
arms as a property standing under their protection. 

Could the modern Roman nobiKty prove they were really descended 
from the Patricians of ancient Rome, they would be the oldest nobility in 
the world, but Gibbon and Muratori unhesitatingly deny the fact. Pe- 
trarch, who addresses the Romans in his celebrated letter to Rienzi, says : 
** Your lords are foreign adventurers. Inquire into their origin. They 
came from the valley of Spoleto, irom the valleys of the Rhine and the 
Rhdne, and from the remotest and darkest corners of the earth." In truth, 
the Ursinis came from Spoleto in the twelfth century. The Colonnas, 
who turn up for the first time in 1 100, themselves confess that they came 
fVom the banks of the Rhine ; but their flatterers, for all that, gave them 
a Roman origin, by asserting that their ancestor was a cousin of Nero, 
wbo fled from Rome and founded Mayence. The claims of the Mas- 
stmi, to' be descended from Fabius Maximus, are only based on the re- 
semblance of name. If this substantiate a claim, the Annibali are ex- 
oeediugly modest for not giving themselves out to be descendants of 
the Carthaginian hero, and the Coss^s in France could then claim the 
inheritance of Cocceius Nerva. 

The nobles of Venice, who are inscribed in the celebrated golden 
book, formed four classes of very unequal rank ; the last consisted of the 
descendants of those who had acquired nobility by purchase ; the first, or 
most illustrious, comprised the descendants of the twelve persons who, in 
697, undertook the election of the first doge, and to them were added 
the families of four other Venetians, who signed the acts for the founda- 
tion of the Church of San Georgio Maggiore, in 800. The families of 
the Ponti (bridges) quarrelled with the Canali (canals), and asserted that 
the Ponti stood above the Canali; but their rivals objected that the 
oanals must have existed before the bridges. The Council of Ten, which 
heard their arguments, put an end to the discussion by stating that it 
could not only pull down the bridges, but fill up the canals. 

The two most renowned Florentine houses are the Medici and the 

194 The English NobUity. 

Strozzi. A branch of the Medicis lives in Naples, and not long ago two 
Strozzis were in the Austrian service. A Medici was, in the year 1296, 
elected gonfalonier of the Florentine republic, at a time wiien the nobles 
were excluded from this office, which appears to justify their *^ medical*' 
origin, ascribed to them on account of their name, and the celebrated fmUe 
in their arms. The Strozzi, who are said to be descended from a RomM 
pro-consul, first made themselves known in the thirteenth century ; that 
is something ; and more than this, they played a brxIKant part in the 
French armies during the reign of Henri II. The Alighieris became ex- 
tinct in 1558. The immortal Dante AHghieri was oonvinoed that he was 
the descendant of an old Roman &mily, which fled to Florence vpon tbe 
overthrow of the empire. The noble race of the Ariostos at Bologna has 
-equally ceased to exist. 

In Spain, excepting in the mountains, the asylum of Pelagus and 
the first Christians, it is difficult to find any blood never commingled 
with Moorish, African, Mexican, or even Jewish. A peculiar privilege 
here separated the noble ^m the bourgeois class, of which the £[>llowiiig 
is an instance : The relations of a highwayman, who was condemned to 
death with three other bandits, claimed for him the privilege of his biiA, 
and offered to pay all the expenses incurred. Hence, while his aooom- 
plices were hung on ordinary gallows, he was g^rroted on a scaffold hung 
with black cloth, after which a protocol was drawn up and handed to his 
lamily as a title-deed of nobility. The Spanish grandees of the first 
class have, it is well known, the privilege of remaining covered in the 
presence of the sovereign, and as one and the same person can hold 
several g^ndeeships — for both male and female line can succeed — people 
say that he has several hats, in order to express that he has more than 
one claim to remain covered before the king or queen. The Duke fi 
Ossuna has many hats, and a quire of paper is needed to reoofd all his 

The " Almanach de Gotha'* is the best authority for the present coa- 
dition of the highest nobility on the Continent, and especially for the 
branches of the mediatised German princely houses. 

The true test of a nobleman is to know whether his arms have been 
transmitted to him through several generations, or whether the Herddi' 
College has found them for him. The difference between tbe Englisb 
peers and the other citizens is only a political distinction, which has no 
influence on the privileges which a person may have a right to claim 
through his birth in other countries. A Howard of Corby cannot 
officially use the title of esquire, unless he is a member of parliament or 
a magistrate, but for all that he stands on a level, and rightly so, with 
the princes of Russia or Sicily, the dukes of Naples or Bome, the 
grandees of Spain, the counts of France, and the barons of Vienna or 

Formerly, the heralds made visitations through all the comrties, and 
held meetings for the verification of titles, which the nobility vrere invited 
to attend. The con*ected genealogies were then formally registered, 
and at the end of each list may generally be found the names of persons 
who give up the right of bearing arms. The last of these visitatioDS 
took place in 1687. In 1737 an attempt was made to establish a noble 
court, but it failed. Still, it is reported that when the actor O'Keeffe 
amused himself by driving through the streets of Dublin in a carriage on 

The JEnffJisA Nobility. 195 

which the arms of the kings of Ireland were emhlazoned, the heralds 
stopped the carriage in the street and ordered the arms to he removed. 

People have grown accustomed to the idea that our age is, ahove all, 
one of movement and transition, that property changes hands more 
quickly than ever, aad, hence, that die old territorial nolnlity of England 
will disi^poar before the children of trade and speculation, like the red- 
akins of America befcnre the white population. If we exanune into this 
more ckWy, however, we shall probably arrive at a very di£Pereiit opinion. 
In former times there were more sudden and frequent changes of pro- 
prietorship than we see in our days. The civil wars, which entailed the im- 
poverishment and destruction of so many families, wiH never again, let us 
trust, break out in England. The time when a fav»ared minister was 
able to secure a princely revenue, and found earldoms and marquisates, 
is gone never to return. Under the Plantagenets, the disorder was so 
g]»at that persons who felt a desire for a rich estate needed ofily to take 
it by force. When the Eari of Warren was ordered by Edward I. to 
produee haa title-deeds, he fetched an old sword, and said, ^' That is the 
document in pow^ of which I hold my estates, and with whose help I 
.will -defend them." Under Henry VIIl^ the confiscation and plundering 
o£ the abbeys a£Ebrded the king the means to enrich favoured families, 
without laying any sacrifice on the crown. Under Elizabeth, Burleigh 
certainly fished in troubled waters without attracting great attention, 
but, for all that, he left his heirs a colossal fortune, though at the 
beginning of his career he had only been a briefless barrister. The Re- 
yoltttion of 1688 so little interfei^ with the custom of making presents 
at the cost of the crown lands, that the parliament was compelled to 
interfere in order to set limits to it; and when William III. wished to 
add to his immense presents to his friend Bentinck another large terri- 
tory, the murmurs of the parliament and the people compelled him to 
denst. Eventually the crown lands were declared inalienable ; but up to 
the middle of the eighteenth century, penaons and offices gave the 
favourites no cause for complaint Thus, when Montagu was nominated 
Duke of Manchester and peer of the realm, with a revenue of 12,000Z., 
his enemies amused themselves by asking him whether he remembered 
the time when he found great difficulty in earning 50/. a year. In his 
notes to Bishop Burnet, Lord Dartmouth calculates that the salaries of 
the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough, together, amounted to 90,000/. 
a year. Robert Walpole also amassed a stupeiMious fortune, and it is 
nothing to the purpose to say that a portion of it was acqmred by his 
speculations in the South Sea Company. 

It must also be taken into condderation that the development of trade 
and commerce improves the position of the landed gentry by raising the 
yaloe of their estates. The increased revenue of Lords Bedford, Portland, 
Grosvenor, Portman, and Berkeley, in London and its vicinity, gives us 
an example of the change produced when the population and wealth of a 
city are increased. The proprietors of mines also find their revenues 

The present age, therefore, i^ears to us to be much less favourable 
than olden times to those persons who are called, whether justly or un- 
justly, parvenus, and we believe, on the contrary, that the advantage is 
now on the side of the historically established nobility, whose position 
and proprietorship have attained the strength of afaii accompli. 

( 196 ) 


It was at the beginning of the present American ciyil war, whose first 
battles were fought in Western Missouri, no great distance from the 
Indian border ; all the young Germans in St. Louis who could cany a 
musket and were not bound to remain in the town had enlisted in the 
volunteer regiments, in order to oppose the desire of the governor to sever 
the state from the Union and make it join the Confederation. The ad- 
herence of Missouri to the North was for the German element in die 
state not only a political but a vital question ; the Germans had ever bem 
the sharpest opponents of slavery in that state, and under the rule of the 
Southern barons they would have become utter pariahs. In additkNii 
business was at such a stand-still, there was such a lack ofmoney and work, 
that many took to soldiering, in order at least to make certain of a live- 
lihood. Still the entire force with which the commander-in-chief. General 
Lyons, undertook his first expedition into the interior of the state, har^y 
exceeded seven thousand men, of whom only the officers wore uniforms, 
but the exercise had been learned wonderfully quick under the pressure 
of circumstances. I had the good fortune to be elected lieutenant^ and 
confirmed by government, but soon after the general took me on hissta£^ 
principally because I was a ready writer. 

It was an oppressively warm evening, and the main corps of oar small 
army was encamped in front of a wooded hill, waiting for Colonel Sigel 
to join us with a still smaller corps. We had but very unde<»ded news 
about the enemy: we knew that Governor Jackson had summoned the 
entire male population in these parts under arms, and led them to join 
the force of the rebels under General Price; but how far off this foios 
might be, or what its strength was, were questions which we had been 
unable to answer, in spite of all the information we had collected. The 
entire district in which we now were was attached to the Confederation. 
Usually, when we approached a farm, we did not see a single white face, 
but merely grinning negroes, who stared at us with amazement; bat 
whenever we got hold of an American or a farmer^s wife, we had found 
nothing but an ostensibly entire ignorance about our opponents : for a 
long time past no one bad seen or heard anything of them, and even the 
blacks, who were at length induced to speak, seemed to have a thoroagk 
understanding with their masters. 

I was lying in front of the general's tent on the g^rass, enjoying the 
light cool breeze which blew on us from the mountains, and listening to 
the songs which echoed from amid the encamped troops. We had entire 
singing clubs among us, who, in spite of the fatigue of the march, 
allowed no evening to pass without singing splendid quartets. There 
was one song to a march tune, written expressly for the Missouri Volun- 
teers, which specially attracted me, and which deserved to become the 
Marseillaise of the Germans in the commencing struggle. At least I 
thought so then, while I was still surrounded by all the enthusiasm for 
our cause, the romance and poetry of the first beginning of our " holy 
war" — to-day, when we have been so bitterly deluded, when the Germans 

The Federal Spy. 197 

have perished hy thousands through the treachery of the commissariat 
and the ignorance of the so-called generals, the said song sounds like a 
living mockery. 

When the last sounds of this song died out on this evening, I was, as 
usual, so excited hy it that I should have liked to risk my life in some 
heroic deed, careless of the danger. At this moment the entrance of the 
tent was opened, and the general stepped out, with a sharp glance around 
liim. I was on niy feet in a second, and he gave a pleased nod on 
nolicing^ me. '^ Let us step on one side for a moment, Beuter,'' he said 
to me, and pushed hack his grey hushy hair — a movement I had con- 
stantly noticed when any grave thoughts occupied him ; ^' I should like to 
rak a couple of words with you." He walked in front of me out of 
camp, until we stood half way between it and our pickets, looked 
riiarply around the landscape, which was brightly illumined by the moon, 
and then began, in a cautiously suppressed voice : 

'* I have received some vague information about the present position of 
General Price, but am still utterly in the dark as to the strength and nature 
of his force. The terrain is growing difficult, demands the utmost cau- 
tion, and, if we have to fight a superior force, which has been, besides, 
recruited from the best strength of the counties, our young fellows, in 
spite of their bravery, may suffer a defeat, which must have a most dele- 
terious effect on the whole state at the present moment. Everything 
depends on my obtaining an accurate report of the strength and position 
of the Confederates. Do you know any one among our people who will 
expose himself to the risk, but, at the same time, speaks English so 
ftaently, and is so well acquainted with the state of affairs, that he can 
pass as a settler of many years' standing in these parts ?" 

He uttered the last sentence more slowly, but his flashing eye was 
fixed so inc^rlugly on me, that I at once knew what he intended by his 
question, though I did not for a moment hesitate to satisfy his ex- 
pectations : 

" If you consider it necessary that I should go, general, you have only 
to give the o^er," I replied. 

My explanation seemed to be almost too quick for him, for he looked 
at me as if undecided, and passed his hand through his hair. 

" I confess that I certainly thought of you," he at last said, slowly. 
^* It is an enterprise, on the success of which the fate of all of us probably 
depends ; still. Renter, I must say one thing to you, if you are detected, 
you will not be treated as a prisoner of war, or shot, but be dishonourably 

I may possibly have turned pale on hearing this, for he turned away 
with a pamful frown. 

"I am aware that few would undertake this duty," he muttered 
** The strictest secresy is the first requirement, and I dare not confide 
in many — ^— '* 

** I will go, general,*' I interrupted him. I had quickly overcome the 
sudden attack of moral weakness which had taken possession of me. '* If 
I am hanged, I know why I have sacrificed myself, and you will defend my 
honour. However, I have to be caught first. Give me your instructions, 

198 The Federal Spy. 


He looked at roe, as if wishing to test my seriousness ; then he ofiered 
me his hand, and pressed mine heartily. 

'< Come into my tent/' he said, shortly, and walked back ahead of me. 

Half an hour later, dressed like a true farmer's boy, and escorted 
through our lines by the general himself, I was proceeding towards the 
narrow road that ran into the wooded hills. Over my shoulder hung a 
eanvas bag, containing two live hens and a dozen eggs. To the present 
day I do not know whence the clothes I wore were obtained : they lay 
waiting for me in the tent ; but the hens and ^gs were stock laborionaly 
oc^ected by the general's German servant to improve his scanty dinners, 
and I shall not easily forget the look poor Fred gave when he was 
ordered by the general to place his spoUa apima in my sack. When the 
spedal history of the present war comes to be written, a memorial is cer- 
tain for this German lad. When, a few weeks later, General Lyons fsU 
in the field as a glorious example for his troops, he sank, with the cry, 
** Fred, I am going up !" into the arms of this faithful fellow, who never 
left his side, and drew his last breath on his bosom. 

I turned into the path that led into the hills, as I said, and thought 
over the part which was allotted to me. I must give myself out as an 
enthusiastic Secessionist, who was making a long journey in order to o£for 
the rebel general a little fresh fare. That I, as a young and powerfiid 
man, would not be let go again, but forced to enlist, was natural : hmoe 
it would be best for me to announce myself at once as a volunteer, and try 
to escape again during the night. 

Although darkness had alreiEidy set in, it could not be more than eight 
o'clock, and if the news the general had received was trustworthy, I lanst 
reach the enemy's camping-ground long before ten o'clock. The farther 
I went the clearer the night became. The wood often fell back on both 
sides for a long distance, and left space for cultivation. Here and then 
a fEirm-house emerged from the gloom, fireflies glistened aU aromid am, 
but the warm air produced such an enfeebling effect on my nerves that I 
should have certainly fallen into a half-waking dream had not the con- 
sciousness of my dangerous enterprise aroused me with a jerk. 

According to my watch I had been walking for a good hoar: the 
country was more open, and now the path turned into a high road, on 
whose side the grass had been trodd^i down for many yards wide and 
trampled. Now I knew that I was on the right track. Cavalry bad 
passed here, an arm of which our small army was almost ignorant, and it 
was only the thought of our artillery, which was served by veteran 
gunners, that removed the unpleasant feeling produced in me by this 
superiority on the part of the foe. I went on as if anxious only to reach 
my journey's end, for I might meet some one at any moment, in which 
case my external demeanour would be of great consequeaoe. In 
a few minutes the wood entirely retired, and a brick house, surrounded by 
densely foliaged fruit-trees, a garden with a neat paling and a wide 
extent of enclosed fields, became visiUe. A wooden piazza seemed to run 
round the house, and an open window could be distinguished between the 
broad-leaved creepers which had clambered up the gable end. In the 
midst of the verdure and silence it looked like an image of peace, so that 
I almost began to doubt the vicinity of the Secessionists, tales about 

2%€ Federal Spy. 199 

"whose cruelty were cnrrent in our camp. I had involuntarily halted: at 
the same moment, however, a voice shouted to me no great distance off: 

*' Stop, my fine fellow ; I should like to know whither you are 

At the same moment one of those powerful men, who may be so often 
xnet in the interior of the land, leaped over the fence, with a rifle on bis 
sbonlder. I saw that the time had arrived to begin plajdng my part. 

'^ Have you any business in camp p'' he at length asked, with a look 
fM of mistrust. ** We hear that the Germans are only six miles from 

*^ I know it, sir," I nodded, as calmly as possible. " I even saw their 
outposts, but got out of their way, so as not to be examined." 

'^ It seems to me, though, in spite of your fluent English, as if you were 
a German yourself," he replied, with a sharp glance. 

" There may be something of the sort about my accent," I replied, 
long prepared for the remark. *' My grand-parents were German, and 
my mother could be recognised for German up to her death. But all that 
has nothing to do with the matter. I was bom in Laclede county, when 
a boy was a good democrat, and now wish that all the republicans, 
Germans, Irish, or Americans, may go to the devil— ^hat is all." 

** And probably you now wish to join the governor's troops P" he asked, 
with a canning smile. 

^ That is the fact, sir," I replied, with decision, ** if there is a gun left 
for me. I have brought with me all that was left on the farm — two fowls 
and a dozen eggs — for the governor or general ; others may have done 
4Bore, but I have nothing better to offer." 

He still looked at me dubiously. ** Well, sir, the descendants of 
Germans have generally the least talent for lying," he at length said, 
•slowly. " There are many oi them hereabout who are true friends of the 
South, and so I will believe you. In any case we are g^ng the same 
road, and as I have examined you here, it will save you much talking on 
-our arrival." 

He threw his rifle over his shoulder, signed to me to follow, and then 
walked on by my side. I, however, regarded this meeting as a lucky 
omen for the execution of my design. Half legitimatised by this man, 
lany special suspicion could hardly fall on me, and if I managed matters 
•with decent cleverness, my retreat during the course of the night would 
not be very difficult. 

" The governor seems to have plenty of cavalry with him," I com- 
menced, after a short spell of silent marching, as if to beg^n a conversa- 
tion, and pointed to the trampled grass. 

"Perhaps you will like to know how many?" he said, with so peculiar 
an intonation that I turned round quickly and found myself once again 
Sace to fi&ce with my man, 

" Why not, if you can tell me?" I replied, calmly. " Is the question 
not allowed ?" 

'^ You seem to me to wear too fine shirts for a farmer's lad from 
Laclede," he replied, pointing with a sharp, distrustful laugh to my left 
sleeve, under which my shirt-cuff was visible, and it required all my self- 
possession for the moment not to display any embarrassment. Still the 

200 The Federal Spy. 

consciousness with which I had set out, that T could only gain my object 
by a bold course of lying, soon restored my coolness. 

" Do you know," I said to him, as I pulled up my coat-sleeve and 
quietly turned back my shirt-cuiF, '^ that I was disposed through your 
recent expressions to take you for a German -American too ? I was mis- 
taken, I see, for otherwise you must have known that most of the old 
German immigrants into the state were members of the respectable 
classes, and gave their children and grandchildren the best education in 
their power. I myself attended the college of St. Louis, and if I happen 
to be wearing a good shirt now, it is because I am used to it. My clothes 
are bad, but I did not wish to run the risk of having better ones torn off 
my back. However, I have nothing to do with you, but only with the 
general or the governor, to whom I am carrying my fowls and eggs." 

I turned away with an angry movement and walked on, and my com- 
panion followed in silence. 

" Well, sir," he said, after a while, " you may be right. I am myself 
of German origin.'' 

" You say so, and that is sufficient," I replied, without checking my 
pace, " but I noticed nothing of it in your conduct to me." 

From this moment we did not exchange another syllable, till at the 
expiration of about a quarter of an hour we reached a wide, treeless 
plateau, and saw the flashing of several 6res at a short distance wonder- 
fully blended with the moonlight. Fifty paces farther and a sturdy 
voice challenged us. " All right,** my companion replied ; and, with a 
sign to me to halt, walked up to the sentry, who had emerged from 
behind a bush. The couple only exchanged a few words, then I was sum- 
moned, and under the searching glance of the contender for Southern 
rights, who, in his ragged exterior, fully confirmed my previous notions, 
I followed by guide, who was rapidly ^advancing towards the fires. So 
soon as we were near enough to distinguish anything, all my senses 
passed into my eyes. I was able to survey the whole camp, and strove 
to form an idea of the probable strength of the foe ; for, once inside the 
lines, I should probably find no opportunity of making an estimate, 
through fear of asking dangerous questions. 

On my left I could plainly see between the camp-fires the lines of 
horses, whose neighing reached our ears, and all the arrangements taught 
me that the chief command was in thoroughly practised hands. The 
camp was considerably larger than ours, and a wild buzzing rose from iti 
I also noticed heavy guns flashing in the firelight — two pieces, however, 
were all I could discover, in spite of the most careful search, and in &6 
anxiety to obtain a certainty as to the strength of this arm, I turned to 
my companion: 

*' A couple more of those grumblers, sir, would do no harm." 

He quickly turned towards me with a frown. " Such remarks may in- 
jure you, sir ; you have a remarkably sharp eye for a peaceable farmer." 

A loud " Hilloh, Charley, whom have we here ?" at our rear, stopped 
my replying, and the next moment we were surrounded by five or six 
armed men, probably returning from a patrol ; their leader, however — one 
of those vagabonds who are at home at the Mississippi landing in St. Louis, 
and who was only distinguished from the rest by having a firelock — laid his 

The Federal Spy. 201 

broad, bony hand on my shoulder. I felt an iiTesistible impulse to loose 
his grasp, but overcame the feeling in time. 

" I am not quite clear myselF," my hitherto companion replied, while 
his face, however, displayed a slight dissatisfaction at the familiarity of 
the other fellow. '* He says he comes from Laclede county, and has 
fowls and eggs for the governor, or general, in his sack." 

" Hilloh, hilloh, eggs and fowls !'* the patrol leader suddenly laughed, 
in the coarse fashion of his breed, while his hand clutched my shoulder 
more tightly. " I say, Charley, this child is suspicious, otherwise he must 
know that the faithful Missourians let their governor and general suffer 
no want of such dainties, while the army, it is true, must eat rusty bacon 
and rotten salt pork. I propose that we examine him thoroughly here ; 
give him what he deserves, and take what he has about him to pay the 
costs of the court-martial.*' 

" I think otherwise, sir, and must request you to be good enough to set 
the man at liberty," my companion said to the patrol leader with a flushed 
face. *' He has come voluntarily to our camp, trusted to my protection, 
"wishes to enter our ranks, and no one shall say that any improper violence 
has been done him among us. General Price shall Iiimself settle about 
the man." 

An ugly scowl played round the mouth of the first speaker. 

" Oh ! you have just come from a good supper at your own house," he 
said ; " but if I consider the man suspicious, I trust that you will have 
nothing to say against it. I think I have seen his face somewhere, and 
not in Laclede county. Take care that you do not draw suspicion on 
yourself, Mr. Werner." 

The speaker laid so marked a stress on the German name, that it was 
at once clear to me that this was sufficient to weaken perfect confidence 
among the Secessionists; at the same time, however, I also knew that 
the bearer of this name belonged to the house which had so struck me 
by the cleanliness and order of its belongings. 

** Well, sir,'* I said with decision, preventing the answer of my com- 
panion, " I will find my way to the general, even though you may stop 
me here and plunder me ; but then we shall know what those have to 
expect who come into camp with the best will. I am of German descent 
too, sir. My name is Renter, and if you want to know anything more, 
I have a couple of strong fists which can defend their owner. I suppose 
all presfent do not wish to play the thief with me." 

At the same moment, by a strong jerk, I liberated myself from his 
grasp, and stood opposite to him with clenched fists. I knew that people 
of this stamp must be addressed in their own language if you wish to get 
anything from them, and that giving way only heightens their cowardly 
brutality ; but in this instance I appeared to have made a mistake. 

" Who do you call thief?" the man yelled, as he rabed his musket to 
his cheek. At the same moment, however, my companion struck up the 
gun, while two men of the patrol sprang between us. 

** Stay, Stevens, stay ; he seems to be a worthy fellow. The general 
might have a crow to pluck with us, as it is, about the fowls," 1 heard 
several fellows mutter. And Stevens lowered his firelock with a poisonous 

202 Tht Federal Spy. 

« Very well, he can come with us into the camp," he said, after a short 
visible struggle with himself; ^'but I'll be hanged if I do not know the 
face, and the Lord have mercy on him if all is not right with him." 

He gave his men a sharp order to take me between them, and we 
started for camp at quick march. Within scarce five minutes the groupe 
round the nearest camp-fire were clearly perceptible, and I honestly coa« 
fess that my heart began to beat more impetuously at the earnestness of 
the danger, which now rose distinctly before me. Wherever I looked, I 
could only discover ruffians of the same stamp as my guardians — ^men wha 
would display the same contempt for death in action, as they did in every 
street row for knives and revolvers, but who had hardly any other feeling 
than that of rough brutality, and had taken part in the war solely in order 
to punish the detested Dutchmen ; for in Missouri the war from the outoet 
had degenerated into a struggle between the German and Ameriott 
nationalities. Card-playing and swearing, with here and there a fanny 
fellow who imitated a nigger, seemed to offer the sole amusement, and il 
was not till we reached the centre of the camp that the noise beg^n le 
lull. Here I saw the uniform of several regular militia companies from 
St. Louis, to which only full-blooded Americans b^onged ; then oame a 
wide open space, in the middle of which a camp-fire blazed, and twenty 
yards from it a halt was commanded, while the leader of the patrol and 
my first guide walked towards the fire. 

I had perfect time to arrange my ideas. We were certainly in the 
vicinity of one of the general officers, and my difficulties were really about 
to begin ; but how, even if I remained unsuspected, I was to escape u&* 
noticed from the mob, appeared to me for the moment inexplicable, while 
it would be utterly impossible, should I become an object of suspicion^ to 
which Stevens seemed much inclined. Still, I had not much time allowed 
me for useless reflections. Stevens returned, and ordered me to follow 
him, with a sulky look. An officer in handsome attire, with several 
aides, was now standing before the fire ; behind it orderHes of the St. 
Louis militia were walking about — but the gentleman awaiting my arrival 
was not General Price. 

My examiner was a thorough Southerner, with pale face^ dark hair 
and beard, and black flashing eyes, which were fixed on me as I ap- 
proached as if they wished to penetrate to my very soul. 

" What has brought you into camp, sir p'* he asked, sharply. 

*' The same thing that may have brought others, sir," I replied, giving 
my voice all possible firmness. ** I took the last fowls and eg^s from our 
farm to bring them to the general, and to ask whether there is a musket 
to spare for me.'* 

'* You say that you come from Laclede county ?" was the second 

" Yes, sir, not far from Oakland." 

*' And what have you to say to the contrary ?" the examiner tamed to 
Stevens ; *' the affair seems to me quite simple." 

" I have only to say, colonel," Stevens replied, while a hateful smile 
played round his lips, '' that a man can easily give himself out for what 
he pleases ; but I know his face from St. Louis, though I do not re- 
member exactly who he is ; that the man is a German, and that T, there* 

The Federal Spy. 205 

fore, suspect be does not come from Laclede county, but from General 
Lyons, confoand his soul." 

A quick, dark glance was darted at me by the officer. 

" You have heard, sir ?" 

Though I felt most uncomfortable in my mind, I mustered up enough 
courage to shrug my shoulders contemptuously. 

^* I think, sir, I know this man's face, or, at least, some very like it, 
belonging to the fellows called Lev^e Rats at St. Louis — I was at coUiege- 
there — and that I am not mistaken is proved by the fEtct that this man 
proposed to his patrol to plunder me of all I had before entering the 
camp, and get rid of me in some way or other." 

^'^I can confirm the last statement, colonel, although I am not disposed 
to be answerable for this person in any way," my first companion now 
said, who had been standing in the shade aside from the fire ; and, after 
a quick glance at the speaker, the officer looked at my accuser with a 
peculiar expression of disgust. I saw how he despised the wretched 
fellows employed to regain the so-called Southern rights, and, at the 
same time, saw that my cause was gained for the moment. 

'* Have you any answer to make to this charge ?" he asked shortly, as' 
if he repelled every superfluous word ; and when Stevens only replied with 
a furious glance at me, he turned to the nearest officer : 

** I see no reason for undue suspicion. Let the man deliver what he 
has for the general, and then place him in the reserve with the new re* 
emits." Then he gave me a hasty nod. ** If your sentiments are really 
what you describe them, I thank you for your patriotism ; if not, you 
may be assured that 3rou will have a bullet in your back at the first wrong 

He walked to the other side of the fire : I gave my fowls and eggs up, 
and then, to my great relief, was led to the extreme end of the camp^ 
where, it is true, the fires burned as brightly as elsewhere, but the idle 
way in which the soldiers lay about revealed novices in the art of war. I 
fancied I had quite escaped any danger, when suddenly a voice shouted 
my name, and a young man leaped up from the nearest fire : 

^^ Renter, old fellow, what has brought the sheep among the gloats — 
and what, by Jingo, is the meaning of the masquerade ? Has the lieu* 
tenant secretly bolted from his countrymen to enlist under the right flag ?'* 

At the first words my heart felt as if it were standing still, but when I 
heard Stevens's voice a short distance behind me, a perfect horror seized 
upon me. In the last year I had been engaged in one of the h&rge 
mercantile firms of St. Louis, where Stevens, who, like most of his sort, 
probably gained a livelihood as porter. on the quay, had of^en seen me. 
The young man, though, who had addressed me, had been clerk to a 
neighbouring firm, knew me well, and had, like myself, on the cessation 
of all trade, taken up a musket, though I was on the side of the Germans, 
and he, as an American, on that of his countrymen. My deception must 
now be revealed, and the former friend had, althpugh involuntarily, handed 
me over to the rope. I saw his features assume an expression of surprise 
on noticing my face, which must have turned ashen white, and also heard 
the ofiicer accompanying me say, in so peculiar a tone that it pierced my 
heart, '* Oh, Jim, so you know the gentleman." But I had only one 

2 04 The Federal Spy. 

thought, that helnnd the nearest fires was freedom, and that scarce two 
hundred paces from us a sharp forest spur jutted into the plain. At 
the same time I knew that I must not hesitate a moment in acting, for if 
I hoped to save myself it must he effected hy surprise, and I should have 
a run for life. If I were shot down I should still escape the rope. Hence 
the officer had hardly finished his sentence ere I bounded out of the 
throng, and ran between the squatting soldiers straight out into the 

I flew like a startled deer towards the forest, and for two seconds every- 
thing remained quiet behind me. Then, however, they shouted all the 
more wildly, '< A spy ! stop the spy !" I distinctly recognised the rough 
hoarse voice of Stevens. '' Stop the spy !" twenty voices repeated 
after him. At this moment a man suddenly rose before me : it was one 
of the chain of pickets, but I ran him down ere he could understand the 
matter: a bullet pinged behind me, a second and a third followed it, but 
I felt myself unwounded, and fled onward. Had not there been only raw 
recruits behind me, and mostly unarmed, a worse lot would assuredly have 
befallen me. Still I felt that the whole camp was alarmed, saw Stevens 
dogging my heels like a bloodhound, and knew that even the wood would 
not save me from my pursuers, unless some fortunate accident intervened 
in my favour. In this way, without daring to take a single back glance, 
I reached the trees, which at least secured me against farther shots, bat 
a sudden disappointment relaxed all my muscles. What I had taken in 
the moonshine for a wooded spur was only a dump of bushes of small 
circumference, and I could see the open, bare plateau when I had forced 
my way through the copse and reached the last trees. A sh(Hrt distance 
behind me I heard loud yells : every moment's delay must hand me over 
to my pursuers, but in the midst of all the confusion I thought with 
marvellous clearness, and I soon made up my mind while continuing my 
flight at the top of my speed. On the right lay the road along whieh I 
had come, and which I must reach again, if I did not wish to get into a»' 
utterly unknown country. The bushes must for a while conceal the altered 
direction of my flight, and even should it be discovered, I had at any rate 
equally swift feet and just as enduring lungs as any of my enemies. I 
had not gone a hundred yards, however, when loud shouts behind me ' 
announced that I was discovered on the bare, moonlit plain. My road 
might have been cut off here from the camp, and I took a hurried, timid 
glance in the direction, but as no trace of new pursuers was visible here, 
I prepared myself for the long race which must now infallibly ensue, and 
the possibility which rose before me of being able to escape alter all poured 
perfectly fresh life into my veins. . « 

From this moment I only know that I reached my former road, and 
followed it as if held by magnetic force, at a pace which soon made me 
feel as if my chest were bursting ; common sense should have urged me 
to gain the wood lying on the side, but an irresistible impulse drove me 
onwards towards tne cam p^ of my German comrades; at the same time I 
fancied that I could not be at all far from the point at which the wood 
rejoined the road, and would offer me a covering without the necessity of 
a flank movement, but I already began to feel that I must stop to mm 
fresh breath, and my eyes, over which a thick mist was beginning to 

The Federal Spy. 205 

settle^ could nowhere discover the bashes. Just as I was thinking of 
taking a compulsory short rest, the breeze bore a sound down to my ear 
which aroused a feeling of desperation in me — the sound of galloping 
horsemen. My pursuers had given up following me on foot, but knew 
only too well that with horses they must catch me up in the open. Perhaps 
I should still have been able to reach the wood had my strength been 
fresh; but I was utterly exhausted, and for a moment asked myself 
whether it would not be best to let myself be trampled under foot by the 
approaching horses, and thus escape all the torture which would await 
me from the moment of capture up to that of hanging. 

At this moment something gleamed in the distance ahead of me ; my 
eye turned in the direction mechanically, but soon became fixed on a 
well-known object — some two hundred yards from me stood the house 
with its enclosures, which had attracted my attention on my outward 
journey — the house of my countryman Werner, who was now probably 
one of my most ea^er pursuers, but for all that my sole hope, if I would 
not surrender unresistingly to the foes whose approach became with each 
minute more audible. The orchard was densely foliaged, but it must 
be the first place searched, so soon as I disappeared from the sight of 
my pursuers, hence I rejected the choice of thb hiding-place. All at 
once I noticed the open window, almost concealed by creepers, which 
seemed to me like a sanctuary. According to appearance, it opened from 
a passage or some unused room ; the piazza, on which it looked out, could 
be easily scaled, and in the house itself they were least likely to seek me. 

So soon as I reached the first fence I clambered over it in order to 
conceal myself as far as possible. I reached the house, slipped between 
the fruit-trees, and a glance told me that the window was still open. At 
the same time, however, the loud shout of one of my pursuers sounded 
so dose to me in the road that I scarce hoped to have time to climb up 
the [tttssa, but an answer from a distance showed me that my pursuers 
were in doubt as to the road they should follow. Once again a little 
streng^ returned to my muscles, which enabled me to reach one of the 
short columns of the piazza, but when I had forced my way through the 
narrow orifice offered by the window, I felt that my senses were leaving 
me, and, unable to keep up, I fell on my knees. 

But a clear, powerful, girlish voice suddenly aroused mefirom my semi- 

" Who's there ?" I heard; " answer quickly, or I fire." 

Now I saw for the first time by the moonbeams that I had entered a 
room in the background of which a white form was sitting up in bed, 
and pointing a revolver at me with the utmost determination. 

** For Heaven's sake, miss, if you do not wish to let a man be mur- 
dered in cold blood, silence," I exclaimed; at this moment only thinking 
of my own pressing danger. '^ I have fallen among the Secessionists ; 
they take "me for a spy, and if you give me up I shall be a dead man in 
half an hour." 

Her weapon sank before my breathless speech and worn appearance, 
and I saw, though as through a veil, her large eyes sharply fixed on me. 
" Who are you ? But tell the truth at all hazards," she said, in a sup« 
pressed voice, which, however, lost none of its peculiar inflection. 

June — ^voi*. cxxviii. no. dx. p 

206 The Federal ISpy. 

I had no reason for concealing anything that was already known in the 
rebel camp ; but I revelled in the thought of surrenderhig unoonditionidly 
to this girl, who, under the pressure of ctrcumstanees, did not seem to 
notice her peculiar situation with a young man. 

" I am a Federal officer," I replied, without any hesttatioD. *^ I know 
tfiat an inhabitant of this house has joined General Lyons; but if tiMve 
be human blood in your veins, as I conjecture, I know liiat you will not 
surrender a worn-out Gkrman fugitive to his foes and a disgraeeAiI 

I had uttered the last words hurriedly, for I heard hasty footst^ 
cracking the dry branches in the orchard I had just left. I had searoe 
ended, when a man began speaking outside, and I recognised Stevens's 
peculiar organ. 

'* Either the earth has swallowed him up, or he has dimbed through 
that window — there is no hole here to hide him." 

'* We shall soon know how matters are," another voice ^mid; ''two 
men here to watch the window and back part of the house, two to keep 
the door, and we will fetch the fox out of his earth, if he is in it." 

Two minutes later heavy blows were dealt the house door, and the 
girl raised her arm with a gentle movement. '* In there, sir," she cried, 
pointing to a small side door; ''lie down on the ground, cover yoondf 
with anything you may find, and do not stir till I myself fetch yon out 
of your hiding-place." 

I did not wait for the order to be repeated ; certain that she had the 
best wish to save me, I opened the door of the closet, which seemed to be 
the lady's wardrobe. I stumbled against a large chesty behind whidi the 
sloping roof formed a cavity : into this I crept, and might oonsder myself 
safe if no search was made in my hiding-place. But I was hardly mi the 
ground, ere I heard my pursuers on the ground- floor eagerly talking with 
a man, who bad evidently opened the house door to them,'4Uid seon after 
the heavy footsteps of several persons were audible on the stairs. They 
stopped before the door of the girl's bedroom, and there waa a deep 
silence. Then came a caulaons tapping, and some one said, ^ Maggy, 

"What is it, father — what means the noise in the heuae?" thegiri 
asked, in perfect calmness. 

« Maggy, you must open the door for a few minutes ; a German spy 
is said to have sought shelter in your room, and the gentleman, who are 
following him, insist on searching." 

'' Father, I am in bed, but for the last hour awake, and know there is 
no one in my room except myself. Tell them that, and tfiey will not 
think of extending their search to a young lady's bedroom." 

A loud murmuring reached my ears, and then the father said, move 
decidedly Umn before: 

''It is of no use, Maggys; we are living in war times; throw some- 
thing over you quickly, and be assured that all possible gentleness will he 
shown you." 

''A minute's patience, then, if it must be," cried Maggy; and Iheird 
her foot gently.touch the floor. Soon after, the door-bolt was drawn back, 
but at the same time she cried, '' Two seconds and then you can entsr." 

The Fedmtl Spy. 207 

Slie fannied to my bidin^place, leaving the door of it wide open, and 
a sked, in a whisper, ^' Where are you ?" 

^'^Here," I replied. And the next instant she was seated on the chest, 
completely concealing the h<^e where I lay with her pettiooats ; at t^e 
same time, however, the room door was hurst open, and I could notice a 
bright jet of light. 

'* Mag^ ?'' exclaimed the &ther, who was probably looking round 
for her in vain. 

^^I am here, father, but cannot show myself in this state, and expect 
he gentle treatment promised me; indeed,. this appears to me a mode of 
behaviour quite unusual with gentlemen." 

There was no reply to t^is, and I cotdd only conjecture, from the 
sounds and oaths that reached my ear, that my pursuers were seeking 
iine. My position had now become so fearfully uncomfortable that I often 
felt a cramp run through all my limbs, and yet the narrow space allowed 
of no change. Wlnle the attention of the searchers was confined to the 
bedroom, I was just going to attempt a half turn, when the rough voice 
of Stevens was audible close to the door of the closet, and almost robbed 
me of breath. 

^' Here is another room, and the lady must consent' to a search. The 
' fellow was good-looking enough to produce all sorts of thoughts." 

** Stop, sir," Maggy cried, in a peculiarly changed voice, and at the 
same time I heard the cock of a revolver twang. '^ I granted, gentlemen, 
admission to my bedroom, and any one who comes too near me here, 
where there is scarce room enough for myself, I will shoot down as a 
ruffian. If my father camiot defend his daughter's honour from insult, I 
will fay to do so myself." 

'^ Maggy, no one will do you any harm," was the old man's answer ; 
'^ but it is war now, and I wUl not have it said that I offered any obstacle 
to my' house being searched." 

-^•Veiy well, fairer. Now ask yourself whether it is possible for any 
one to be hidden here. I said that I could not let myself be seen in this 
state ; and Americans who forget the most common respect for their own 
ladies, deserve no other treatment than loafers." 

^^ Enough 6f this. After all, our suspicions are too superficial to torture 
this brave g^l any longer," said the same voice which had before ordered 
the guard in the house. *' You believe, on your honour, nr, that this 
man's supposition is based on a mistake?*' 

'^ I was convinced of it &om the beginning, for I know my daughter," 
the old man replied; ^^ still, in the present times, I did not Kke to offer 
&e slightest opposition." 

''And have you no idea of a hiding-place in the vicinity^ where the 
fugitive may be ?" 

''I do not see, sir, why he may not have laid himself in the shadow of 
a fence, or in the tall grass on the skirt of the forest. If he altered his 
oonrse here, anything is more likely than that he should have entered a 
bouse where he does not know a soul." 

A short pause ensued, in which I heard my own heart beat. 
'^ It certainly seems that we have delayed here nnnecessarily," the 
first voice said. '^Pardon us, miss, but circumstances compel us to many 
an unusual step." 


208 The Federal Spy. 

A short, half-loud conversation then began, and then I heard the door 
open and the men going down stairs. 

'* Go to bed again, Maggy. I trust you will not be disturbed agun," 
the old man said. And the door was closed. 

I drew a deep breath of relief, but waited in vidn for a movement on 
the part of my protectress. When the sound of retiring hoofs became 
audible outside she rose slowly and feebly, walked towards the entrance^ 
and then clung with both hands to the door-post. Had not die painfiil 
feeling in all my limbs urged me to leave my hiding-place,, my desire to 
help the girl, and my deep gratitude, would have made me do so. I rose 
to my feet as quietly as I could, the sinking moon shone ri^t into- Uie 
room, and lit up a pale, sweetly-modelled face with half-closed eyes, which 
could scarce be distinguished from the white night-dress cardessly fended 
round her limbs. She seemed to be contending against a iaintness; but 
when, in obedience to my warm feelings, I said, half aloud, '' For Heaven's 
sake, miss, can I do nothing for you?" my words seemed to restore her 
a portion of her strength. *' Nothing, sir, nothing," she replied, drawiog 
herself up with a slight shudder. ^* Go back and close the door." She 
went firmly out into her bedroom, and I heard her bolt the door of it; 
but honouring her feelings, which I fully understood, I had already 
closed the small closet door and seated myself on the chest, waiting till 
she would release me. 

I waited so long that I fell fast asleep, without having an idea of it, 
and it was not till I felt a gentle shake that I started up. It was per- 
fectly dark around me, but the half loud melodious voice whidi now 
sounded in my ear restored me my perfect consciousness. 

*' The moon has gone down, sir, but in an hour day will break,** I 
heard ; ** get ready to leave at once." 

'* I am ready," I said, noiselessly rising. 

*' Then give me your hand and follow me gently. Take the same 
road through the window, and then go through the orchard to the ietMi 
where you will wait for me. Not a word, sir," she added, as I tried to 
give vent to my feelings in a few hurried sentences. 

I took her small soft hand, in which nothing revealed the £Eunnef^8 
daughter, in mine, but I did not even dare a pressure of thanks. She led 
me to the open window, and I effected my retreat almost noiseles^. 
Below me it was so dark that it took me a minute or two to make sure 
of my direction; and I had not been at the fence an instant, wheat 
gentle rustling revealed Maggy's presence. 

<' Follow now close after me," she said. " Yon must net return bytbe 
direct road to the German camp, for they will be watching for yoa were. 
But, before all, not a word." 

She had cautiously opened a gate in the fence, and now walked on with 
light, quick steps. She went straight along a furrow in the ploughed 
fields. Two or three fences, which lay in our way, she climbed over with 
the lightness of habit, so that I could only find her^ again by the light 
of the waning stars. Then I noticed we had entered a-fMbth which fsa 
across the plain between tall bushes, and we at length reached the skirt 
of the wood, which completely concealed us. The girl walked ahead of 
me with the same speed and certainty. I would gladly have addressed 

TTie Federal Spy. 209 

her, but I belieyed that I thanked her best by punctually executing her 
orders, and held my tongue. In about half an hour day began to break; 
but now our path ran right into the wood. 

*' Remain close behind me, not to lose your way," she now spoke, for 
the first time. *' We shall soon reach a spot where you cannot miss your 

I had a feeling in my heart as if a lovely fairy had appeared to me in 
my trouble, and, after saving me, would disappear and leave me pining 
for her. But the root-covered track soon brought me back to reality. I 
needed all my caution to escape a fall in following my guide, who walked 
along, forgetful of my ignorance of the locality ; and it was not till the 
red light of dawn began to pierce through the foliage that we entered a 
broad highway. There she stopped, with her face still averted from me, 
as if reflecting on the right direction, or desirous of regaining her 
strength. When she at length turned to me, she was standing in the 
fall rosy dawn in a ^v^j summer dress, fitting tightly to her form, with 
her braad*brimmed straw hat thrown on her back, and gazing at me with 
a half shy glance from her large eyes. So maidenly, so graceful in her 
simplicity, I bad never imagined her after the occurrences of the night. 

*' This is your road, sir," she said, slightly turning her head away as if 
wishing to escape my glance. '* In less than half an hour you can rejoin 
your comrades." 

*^ And now, miss, tell me," I cried, under the excitement of my feel- 
ings, " how can I ever thank you for what you have done for a perfect 
stranger this night." 

She slowly turned her head : her face had ag^n become as serious and 
pale as I had seen it in the moonlight. 

** You have nothing to thank me for, sir," she calmly replied. " I hate 
this revolt against legal order, which has brought the di'egs of the Ameri- 
can population into our peaceful neighbourhood, and love the Germans 
and their fidelity to the Union, as I loved my own grand -parents. What 
I may have done for you, I did for my own satisfaction, and so let us part 
without further compuments." 

** And you give me no hope, Miss Werner," I said, after a short pause, 
in which her eye rested calmly on my excited face, *' of ever seeing you 

A melancholy smile played round lier lips. "Do you know, sir, 
whether either of us will be alive to-morrow?" she replied; then added, 
in greater excitement, pointing in the direction of the rebel camp, " These 
men care neither for age nor sex when they fancy they have discovered 
an enemy of their senseless enterprise, and you will probably go into 
action this day. Do you think that, under other circumstances, I should 
have acted with so little self-respect?" A bright flush suffused her cheeks 
at the last words, wondrously enhancing her beauty, and I seized her 
hand, which she granted me after a slight struggle. 

«* Very good. Miss Maggy ; but if ever circumstances permit us to 
meet again, may I then address you and remind you of this night, and 
the gratitude of a heart whch has never before felt as it has done during 
the last few lioura ?" 

She quickly withdrew her hand and turned away, that I might not see 

210 Tht Federal Spy. 

the vivid blusb which spread over her fmee. ^^Go, sir,. go! E^vaa 
protect joa !" she added, hurriedly, wlule making a moTement to return 
to the wood. 

^' And may I not even tell you my name ?" I asked, with a feeling 
which was strangely divided betiveen the sorrow of parting and a happi- 
ness I suddenly felt. 

She stopped, turned slowly back, and a beaming glance^ with which, 
however, a peculiar melancholy was blended, met me. ^ I know it 
already, sir,*' she said, with a smile that looked like a sunbeam forcing its 
way through clouds. '' Your enemies told it my father when they entered 
the house. God protect you, Mr. Reuter," she added, and ofieted me 
her hand. But I had scarce seised it with a firm preasme when I fdk 
her fingers slip from my grasp again, and the giri walked slowly towards 
the forest without once looking back. 

In less than half an hour I was in camp, and had report to 
my generaL Four hours after we 'w&ee standing face to fewe witk the 
enemy, who, thanks to our excellent g^s, soon bn^e and allowed ui to 

In the battle of Springfield, fought soon after, I was wounded, and 
transported with other patients first to Jefferson City and then to St 
Louis. I had received a bullet in the left shoulder, which missile plaeed me 
hors de combat for a long time ; still, thanks to the intercession of my 
friends, I had procured a situation in the po6t-o£Bce, which would keep 
me comfortably for several years. One day business took me to the rail- 
way dep6t, just at the moment when a train arrived with fugitives £roni 
the interior of the state, and I suddenly saw a face wluch had never left 
my memory for a day. I looked into two dark sparkling eyes, in which t 
h^ven seemed to open before me, and the next second — how it happened 
I never knew — ^I had both Maggy's hands in mine. ^' Yes, it must be 
that we were to meet again," she replied to an involuntary exd ama ti iw 
of surprise on my part, and then turned to an old £unner, who was. 
evidently astounded by the whole scene. ** It is Mr. Reater, fiither, jtn 

I will be short in my conclusion. When we drove the rebels from At 
neighbourhood of Werner's farm, without it being possible for me to viai 
the memorable house again, the old man had openly displayed his sym- 
pathy with the Federals, while his son, valuing his American citimnAip 
more than his Crerman origin, fled with the Secessionists; and Mag^m 
not hesitate to narrate her share in my flight. But boUi £ued badly ki 
their openness. The German forces were compelled to go to ewj 
threatened pdnt of the State, and soon afier Southern guerilla bands ap> 
peered, phmdering and bnmiiig everything that belonged to Uie Unionisia 
Old Weraor, who was warned betimes, did not wait for Uie worst, hot 
saved his money and anything dse he could, and fled with his danghtar 
to St Louis. It was high time to do so^ for he leamed on Uie road, frsn 
otha* fugitives who followed af^ him, that on thnr departure notfaiag 
remained of his house bat smddi^ nuns. 

Three months passed, in whidi I constantly visited the pair, udw wcfs 
temponurily living in a boarding-lionse, wod my feelings for Maggy had 

A Modem French Duel. 211 

ripened into love. Still I noticed ihat old Werner was ezoessively re- 
served towards me, and evaded any opportunity of having an explanation 
with mOb At length he recogpaised among the rehel prisoners brought in 
a young man from his neighbourhood, and learned from him that his son 
had fallen in one of the repeated skirmishes. When I called on him that 
evening, I found that a remarkable change had taken place both in him 
and Magg^. The girl, who tried in vain to hide her tear-swollen 
eyes, begged me not to ask any questions, and stay but a little while ; 
but when I returned next day, the old man told me with perfect calmness 
what had happened, and added, *< He behaved wrong to his parents and 
grand-parente ; but still it could never have been a match between you 
and Maggy if he had come home again, for he would have taken to the 
farm. Now, though, if you like to be my son, after we have got over our 
heavy less, and, so soon as the times become qiueter again, go into the 
country with us, I have nothing to say against it; but I cuinot part 
entirely from my last child, and wish to die at the spot where I planted, 
nearly every tree, and which has been my home till now." 

Maggy is now my darling wife, in whom I discover fresh treasures 
eveiy day; but we are stili waiting for the time the oki man is longing 
for, and which will render me a prosperous farmer. Unfortunate Missouri 
is still rent by <»vil war, and when we offer thanks to Heaven, it is, before 
ally because we are in a safe asylum, and have a more endurable lot than 
the many thousands whose welfare has been utterly and eternally ruined 
in this hapless war. 


Our way lay in the direction of the Porte Maillot, in the Bois de 
Boulogne (Jules Janin is the narrator ; if Dumas pere can best describe 
the more stirring aspects of a French duel in the olden time, the veteran 
feuilletonist is unsurpassed in his own account of this same proceeding, as 
enacted. in our own days). I was going to fight my best friend Bernard ; 
he had asked me to make amends for something I had done to offend him, 
and the offence was so grievous that I really do not remember what it 
was. Each went his own way, as the autumnal leaves cracked under our 
feet. Bernard walked on one side of the road, with his hands behind his 
back. Bernard walked sedately ; he had made up his mind to kill me. 
As to me, I went along without troubling myself with reflections ; I really 
did.not oare to kill Bernard, although it was I who had given him offence. 

Our witnesses—good fellows enough — kept at a respectful distance, and 
followed in silence ; they liked us both, and anticipated only with feelings 
of deep Qonc^n the fatal moment when one of us should be tumbled oa 
the ground with a ball in his body. They thought of our old parents^ 
whom we. ourselves had forgotten ; of our gay autumnal evenings, never 
to come back again ; and they thought even of the grief of Augustine and. 

212 A Modem French Duel. 

Elise. Still we kept on, and was not tbe road long ! I have always 
despised those who go to fight in a carnage; the least shake gives them a 
shudder. To walk to a combat is quite another thing ; the blood circu- 
lates ; there is a positive pleasure in contemplating, probably for the last 
time, the sunshine and the vast firmament. It is a pleasure to trip by 
the side of a cataract, which there are but faint hopes of getting across. 

Once at the Porte Maillot, we pretended to separate. 
* " We are going to seek for a good place," said Captain Reynaud. 

<< That is it ; a good place," said Bernard. 

And there we were, trying to get into gloomy alleys, whilst the central 
avenues were furrowed in every direction by English horses, carriages full 
of ladies, and light tilburys, favourable for a little flirtation in public. 
Capital invention ! You are alone by the side of her, close to her, you 
see her, feel her, love her, and she, trembling, lets her veil and hair float 
against your face. The horse knows how happy you are, and goes all the 

I had got to the extremity of the shndy pathway that opens upon La 
Muette, and, totally forgetting what had brought me to the wood, was 
peering out from beneath the overhanging tapestry of leaves, when I saw 
some one go by. Oh, what luck! She was alone in her berline— 
La Julietta. 1 rather guessed her than saw her. I guessed her by her 
scarf, by the black muzzle of her little dog peering over the doorway, 
leaning on the scarf, and watching autumn go by. 

I had entered the lists without having any real interest in the matter, 
and now I only thought of my love, and seeing her so near me — the beau- 
tiful artiste — " Stop !" I shouted ; '' stop a moment, Julietta !" And I 
was going to run after the carriage, but Bernard took hold of me with his 
great hand, and with his grave look he said : 

" It is not there that you have to go, but there !" And he pointed 
with his finger to an obscure and repulsive part of the forest. 

*^ Oh yes, I know it all," I said ; ** but wait a moment, Bernard. I will 
kill you presently or you may kill me, no matter which, but let nao say 
to her for the last time what I said to her yesterday, my Julietta ! She 
sang Don Juan to me ; you know her; you supped with her at my bouse 
only a fortnight ago ; you accompanied her on the piano when she sang; 
you spoke to her in Italian and in Spanish ; you whispered to her as long 
as you liked ; now let me go and bid farewell to the fascinating creature.*^ 

At this very moment Julietta's carriage had turned round, and, (SOming 
back, drew up before us. She put the dog on one side with her liand, 
and advancing her beautiful face : 

" Good morning, Bernard ; good morning, Grabriel," she said to roe; 
'* always friends, chers seigneurs, always inseparable. Whither are yoa 
going, then ?" At the same time she held out her hand to me with hee 
charming Neapolitan smile, browned by the sun. She was holding out 
her hand to me, but it was Bernard who took it and kissed it. 

<' Signorina," he said to her, with a familiarity that surprised me not a 
little, " if you would only take a turn or two in the woods, I and Gabriel 
have a little business matter to settle here, after which we shall be at your 
service, and, if you like, we will sing together this eveninir the duo of 
< Matilda di Sabran.' *" 

A Modern French Duel. 213 

Zerlina-Julietta consented like a good princess to prolong her drive a 
little; she bade me farewell, but with her eyes on Bernard. Then I 
suddenly remembered that I had come out to fight, and I said to Bernard, 
« Marchons !" 

We turned ofF at once to the left, and, looking round, I saw that 
Bernard was still looking after the carriage. I saw something also at the 
window that was looking at Bernard; but I was not sure if it were the 
spaniel or Julietta. 

We had got to the middle of the alley, and everything was ready, calm, 
and silent. French promenaders have that in them that is good ; they 
are discreet ; they always respect a duel as they do a rendezvous. Our 
witnesses were not men to be trifled with, the pistols were loaded, the 
paces measured off, and each of us took his place. 

Bernard said from a distance (we were separated by twenty-five paces), 
** Fire first !" 

I said to Bernard, *' Let us fire together !'' 

Captain Reynaud interrupted our conversation, carried on with pointed 
pistols, by giving the signal with his big hands : One ! two ! three ! 
I expected that Bernard would have fired. One ! two ! three! Nothing ! 
Bernard did not fire, neither did I. '' You are a wretched humbug," 
said Bernard to me. Without looking at Bernard, I said to Captain 
Reynaud : 

^* Captain, I shall never fire at Bernard.'* 

** Well,' then," said Bernard, " here's at you, Gabriel." 

He pulled the trigger, and caused a great hole in my bat : the ball 
made the circuit of my skull*cap. I must have been born under a lucky 

'* You are not dead ?*' said Bernard to me. 

" No,'' said I. 

^' Well, that is lucky. Let us embrace one another." And, so saying, 
lie came up to me with open arms, and embraced me till I was nearly 

- Then seeing that my hat was burnt, and had a great hole in it just over 
my forehead: 

^ Come,^' he exclaimed, " I took a good aim, didn't I ?** 

«« Yes^^ I tepliedt ** but luckily it is my old hat that I put on this 
xnordiDg, and so it is not so annoying as if it had been my new one." 
- (H Wefl/' said Bernard, " take mine, it is quite new, and give me yours; 
I'wifi keep it in remembrance of our eternal friendship." 

The witnesses applauded this sublime act of self-negation on the part 
of Bernard. I, who knew that Bernard was not so well off in the world 
as I was, was abashed at the idea of exchanging my old hat for his new 
one, but he said with so much insistance, '* Give me your old hat!" that 
I handed it over to him. He at once put it on his head, and bidding us 
all good-by, went away as proud, and with a neck as stiff, as if he had 
won the battle of Austerlitz. 

We waited for him a quarter of an hour at the border of the wood, not 
knowing what had become of him. But the quarter had only just ex- 
pired when we saw Julietta's carriage pass by, and in it and by her side 
sat Bernard; upon Bernard's knees was the young artiste's poodle, and 

214 A Modem French Duel. 

on the knees of the lady, O Heaven ! what did I see, the hat with ihe hole 
in it that Bernard had carried off as a prize. The carriage passed so 
quickly that I had harely time to take off Bernard's new hat to Jalietta. 

The witnesses could not fathom the meaning of what they saw; but I 
felt happy in being able to divine the generous conduct of Bernard. ** He 
is talking of me," I said to mysdf ; ^' he is relating to m$f dear Julietta 
the danger that I have escaped, and she is shedding sweet tean over my 
hat with a hole in it. Worthy Bernard! I was so delighted with the 
disinterestedness of his conduct that I almost regretted he had not shot 
me through the heart 

We all took our way towards town, expatiating eloquently in praise of 
Bernard. We were in high spirits for a variety of reasons : our witnesses 
had seen no blood shed, I was recondled with Bernard, and Bernard, he 
was pleading my cause with Julietta. The witnesses, however, excited by 
the affair of the morning, could hold converse concerning nothing b«t 
singular combats, duels to the death, and offences washed away in blood. 
They had each their story, and some many to relate, in wluch pistds, 
swords, sabres, and daggers played their sanguinary part. 

^' All these duels that you have spoken about," interrupted Captain 
Gaudeffroi, " were affairs on land, and bear no affinity to a duel to death 
in the good ship La Belle Narmande^ which I, one among a hundred, 
witnessed when I was a middy. It is now a long time ago, and the da^ 
took place between the captain of the ship and a young English gentle- 
man. The captain, who was not a strict disciplinarian, had made an ap- 
pointment at a certain point in the ocean, and the Englishman had been 
waiting for him there for a month. But the history is rather long to re- 
late," added Captain Gaudeffroi, ^' and if you do not consent to sit down 
a few minutes in front of the estaminet of the ' Deux Amis,' I shall never 
have strength to relate you the whole of it." 

We accordingly adjourned to the dusty estaminet of the '^ Detix 
Amis," and taking our seats beneath the shadow of a tall young poplai^ 
which already rose up one half higher than the house, the captain oeii- 
tinued his story in nearly the following terms : 

They had passed the night in the same hammock; the same roll of the 
ship had rocked them in their bed, as an attentive mother rocks her 
children to sleep. To see these two men thus brought together and so 
united, no one would have said that the next day one of them was to 
perish by the hand of the other ; and yet such was their destiny. Scarcely 
had the fresh breeze of the morning and the shouts of the watch an- 
nounced Aurora, than they both hastened up ready to combat to death 
in the most dignified manner possible. 

One of these men was no less than the captain, in the full vigour of 
manhood; it was to be seen in the looks of that man that his enemy was 
dead. A smile as of contempt lingered upon his lips ; his eye ran over 
the minutest details of his ship, and he went, according to custom, to«ee 
the compass, interrogate the pilot, and walk the deck* There was not a 
sailor that escaped his watchful glance, and not a sail or a sheet that he 
did not scan if in its proper plaoe ; he was, indeed, an active, nefleotiva^ 
and imperious man, who, before an hour was over, was going, to play tbs 
game of life and death. 

A Modem French Duel 215 

His adversary was a simple ^'gentleman" — ^lus black coat and neat 
necktie betokened a young Londoner or Parisian, more accastomed 
to the every-day life of a great city, than to the imposing sight of a ship 
in the trough of the ocean. This young man had a countenance in 
which care was depicted, but it was simply ennui that gave him that 
expression; he sat on the deck watching with what might be his last 
look, the foggy sky breaking up before the rising sun into fleecy clouds 
— floods of greenish white, through which the sun was just Imaking 
forth, and the busy yet silent movements of an army of marines, shut up 
within the flanks of a ship, and who had only one instinct, that of obey- 
ing the orders of a single man. Thus it was on each side that the mo- 
ment of strife was awaited. 

When the captain had given his last order, he stuped on to the 
quarter-deck towards his adversary, who got up on seeing him approach, 
and though he was of less stature than his enemy, is-was easy to see tibat 
he was not wanting in courage. 

At that very moment a dead calm had suspended the ship's course; 
the first rays of the rising sun had chained the winds down ; the sails; 
hung upon the masts ; and the whole ship's crew were thus left at liberty 
to watch the progress of the ^hostile proceedings. The v^ieran sailors^— 
real children of the salt — had taken up their stations in front, the younger 
men were behind, the staff surrounded the person of the captain, like a 
group of witnesses upon so solemn an occasion, and if you had lifted your 
head you would have seen the young middies perched in the riggings 
from whence they contemplated the imposing spectacle that was presented 

The young man alone stood by himself. He had neither friend nor* 
witness; he had not even a sigh in has favour, not even the benefit of a 
moment's doubt as to what was gomg to happen to his person, so per- 
fectly was ev^ one of that ship's crew persuaded that it was an act of 
madness to engage the captain on bis quarter-deck < — a madness for which 
only one result could atone ! 

The young man himself, too, seemed to feel that when the swords, 
were drawn he did not stand upon firm land : the roll of the slnp made 
him swerve, and he would have been a dead man had not the captain, 
seeing him at so great a disadvantage, cast his sword into the sea, and 
called for pistols. Lots had no sooner been drawn as to who should fire 
first, than a short, sharp sound was heard, so slight that it was lost in a 
moment in the murmur of the waves. Yet had that slight report been 
enough to kill the captain ; he had fallen down and died as if it was an 
every-day occurrence, scoldiug one of those who stood mournfully over 
him, because he had a hole in his coat-sleeve. 

As to his murderer, what became of his murderer ? When you are 
under the smiling shadows of the Bois de Boulogpae, in the midst of the 
shrubs of the Barri^re d'Enfer, once your enemy is on the ground, and 
your honour is revenged, you are dragged away from the scene of 
slaughter, and you leave to the victim's seconds the task of lifting up 
his corpse ; but on board ship, when all is sky and sea around, you must 
remain to confront your victim, and when your feelings of revenge are 
gratified, and they are succeeded by remorse for the deed done, you must 

216 A Modem French Duel. 

be present at the funeral, you must hold a corner of the flag that does 
duty as a shroud, and you must even lend an unwilling hand in casting 
the body of your victim into the sea. 

What must have been the agony of that young man when he saw 
the flood open to receive the still warm body that was thus thrown to it, 
when he heard the booming of the great guns, and the mournful shouts 
of the crew bidding it an eternal farewell, when he saw the vessel resume 
its course across the wide expanse, and he found himself alone amidst 
the stem silence and the general mourning I 

Thus spoke Captain Gaudeffroi ; his narrative seemed to make a deep 
impression upon all the witnesses of our miserable duel on firm land, and 
I alone felt that the captain was prolix. I thought of nothing but of 
Bernard and of Julietta. 

At last evening came on, and each took his way home. I set off on 
the traces of Julietta and Bernard ; but it was in vain that I ransacked 
Fans. I went to the Bouffes, to Julie's, to Cyprien's— -everywhere. 
Neither he nor she had been heard of. At last 1 went home myself 
and slept till morning. 

Next morning, who should come in but Bernard himself. 

** Where were you?" said I. "I was seeking you everywhere last 

^< Why," he said, '< I was at the Th^tre-Fran9ais, seeing < Mitbri- 
dates' played, with Julietta." 

^^ And what did she say, Bernard, about the hole in your hat ?" 

'* She declared you were a nice fellow to take aim with such desperate 
intentions upon your fiiend, and she vowed she would never speak to 
you again, for she detests a ' buveur de sang' like you." 

And so it really happened ; ever since that horrible affair she would 
not speak to me, she forgot altogether that it was I who had introduced 
Bernard to her ; she kept the hat with the hole in it as a trophy, and for 
more than a month suspended it in her boudoir. And thus it was, 
that by this unfortunate duel I won a new hat, lost the good graces <^ 
the lady I loved, and was superseded by Bernard. 

It is true, however, tiiat I had Captain Gaudeffroi's story into the 

( 217 ) 



At the time when Diirer lived (at the end of the fifteenth and 
beginning of the sixteenth century), the newly-discoTered arts of print- 
ing and engraving occnpied men's minds in a remarkable degree. As he 
was one who made great advances in eng^ving, it may not be out of 
place to attempt to give some idea of the state of those arts before his 
age, and of the difficulties which attended, or rather prevented, the dif- 
fusion of written information in more distant times. 

Among the calamities which followed the raid of the Goths and Vandals 
into Italy in the fifth century A.D., there was one which, two centuries 
afterwards, exercised a dark and dreary influence over the civilisation of 
the Western World. The Saracens about the year 635 invaded Egypt. 
After besieging Jerusalem, they took the magnificent city of Alexandria. 
We don't here refer to their having destroyed the celebrated library there, 
nor pause to express surprise that part of it should have previously perished 
by the orders of so enlightened a person as Julius Cassar. These focts 
may be mentioned by the way, and credit may also be given to Cleopatra 
that she, with the aid of Marc Antony, was the foundress of a second 
library there. The latter, with what remained of the former collection 
of books, were used by the Saracens as fuel for their baths ! 

But what IS now more especially referred to, as the result of the 
Saracenic invasion of Egypt, was the cutting off of the communication 
which had previously existed between that' country and the people then 
settled in Italy and other parts of Europe. In consequence of this, a 
substance which was made from a reed which grew on the banks of many 
rivers in the East could not be obtained in Europe, or was scantily sup- 
plied there. 

This reed was the papyrus, and the substance that was manufactured 
from it was used in common with wood, ivory, waxen tablets, and the 
skins of animals, for inscribing on its surface the books and writings of 
the Greeks, Romans, and Egyptians. 
It was the paper of that age. 

There was a manufactory of it at Memphis three hundred years before 
the time of Alexander the Great, and, after the Romans had conquered 
Egypt, it was made at Alexandria for a like period before the time of our 

Such was the importance of the manufacture, that on a dispute arising 
between one of the Egyptian Ptolemies and Eumenes II., King of 
Fergamus, a city of Asia Minor,* and when Eumenes wished to augment 
a library there in imitation of the Alexandrian Library, Ptolemy pro- 
hibited the export of the papyrus. This caused Eumenes to see what he 
could do with the skins of animals as a substitute for the Memphian paper, 
and he was therefore considered as the inventor of '< Charta pergamenea," 
or parchment^ as the word " pergamenea" was corrupted into. This was 
159 A.D. 

* Mentioned in the 2nd chapter of Revelations, and the birthplace of Galen the 

218 Albert JDurer. 

The papyrus rush is supposed to have heen alluded to hy Isaiah in chap. 
xix. ver. 6 and 7, who says : " They shall turn the rivers far away ; and 
the hrooks shall he emptied and dried up : the reeds and flags shall 
wither, the paper reeds by the hrooks, and everything sown by the brooks 
shall wither, be driven way, and be no more seen." 

Without assuming this as being prophetical, we may say that the 
supply of papyrus, or paper, was cut off from the Western World. And 
for how long a period ? 

For no less than four centuries. 

During this time it may be truly said, that '^ Darkness covered the 
earth, and gross darkness the people." 

The few who might be able to withdraw themselves from the 
struggle for existence, and from the fashionable pursuit of the time — war 
—so as to write books or treatises, as the spirit might move them, would 
find that there were greater difficulties in their way than the paper duty 
of more modern days, which some people were lately anxious to retain. 

He who might be aminded to put down his own thoughts or those of 
others in a lasting form would first have to catch his hare (or perhaps his 
sheep), in a supply of parchment (which was neither abundant nor 
cheap), and then perhaps to get it dressed, to receive the pen or reed 
of the person who could put letters upon it ; in other words, who could 

By reason of this and other obstacles few books were penned, and those 
that had been penned or reeded became of great value. The scarcity of 
materials for writing was such that Robertson,^ the historian, tells us : 
'^ There still remain MSS. of the eighth, ninth, and following centuries 
written on parchment, from which some former writing had been erased 
in order to substitute a new composition in its place. In this manner it 
is probable that several worka of the ancients perished. A book of livy 
or Tacituaf might be erased to make room for the legendary tale of a 
saint or the superstitious prayers of a missal." 

About 796, Charlemagne granted an unlimited right of hunting to the 
abbot and monks of Jethin, that they might make of the skins of the 
slain deer girdles and covers for their books. { 

A light at length broke upon the world. This was the. art of making 
paper in the manner since become universal. Gibbon tells us, in the 
ninth volume of the '* Decline and Fall," that " the inestimable art of 
transforming linen into paper was diffused over the Western World from 
the manufactures of Samarcand in the twelfth century ."§ 

* Charles V., vol. i. p. 227, in notes. 

t The preservation of Tacitus is said to be owing to the accidental preservation 
of a single copy, Hiose that had been placed in the Roman libraries, acoordiDg to 
government rule, had been lost when &ose libraries were destroyed. 

X In St. Paurs Epistle to Timothy, he says : << The cloak I left at Troas bring 
with thee, and the books, and especmUy Hhe parchments,^* 

Coming from a leaf, we get the word folio, from folium, a leaf; volume^ from 
volnmen— the writmg which was rolled up; liber, a book, from Uber, the imier 
bark of a tree which was used for writing on ; and the Bible— jmw exoeOmce The 
Book->is said to have been named from Byblos, a city of Syria, but which word 
originally signified the bark of a tree. 

§ It was called by Montfau9on, the archaeologist, ^ Charta bombycine," or 
cotton paper, and Samarcand was the great city of '^Timour the Tartar," from 
whence we should hardly expect much that was civilising; but. Gibbon show% in 
a note, that paper was first imported there from Chum. 

Albert Durer. 219 

When paper did come Into use, there was still a lack of intelligence as 
to the means of using it. The art of book-making remained with the 
clergy, or '* clerks," as they were then and are still styled in formal 
writings, and who are supposed by Dr. Dibdin, the bibliographer, to be 
the relics of the Jewish scribes. They were the Chapman and Halls and 
Longfmans of that day. 

In every large abbey there was a scriptorium, where the ^' olerici" 
were employed in transcribing books and illuminating initial letters, and 
for the support of which estates were specially left. 

In 1330, books were so scarce that tliey were not sold but by special 
contract, like land, and were the subject of transfer by deed. 

In 1360, the royal library at Paris did not exceed twenty volumes. 

Further light was not thrown on the subject until two centuries after 
the introduction of paper, so slowly did knowledge progress in those 
days. This was in the year 1381, when playing-cards were invented— > 
or, perhaps, imitated from something of the sort imported from the East 
«— for the diversion of Charles VI. of France, whose brain had been dis- 
ordered by a coop de soleil. This was in the reign of our Henry V., and 
about the time when Wycliffe had been otherwise employed in translating 
the whole Bible into English. 

Wooden blocks of a rude form were used for making cards, and, in 
1390, the first paper*mUl in Germany was erected near the city of 
Nuremberg—Hxiore of which hereafter. 

In the last-mentioned year there is the following entry in the accounts 
of the treasurer of Charles VI. : '* Paid fifty-six shillings of Paris to 
Jaoquemenin Griengonneur, the painter, for uiree packs of cards, gilded 
with gold and painted widi divers colours and several devices, to be 
canied to^ the king lbr< his amusement." 

Cards soon after became the amusement of the noble and wealthy, and, 
not long after, of the artisans and lower classes ; thence they became 
articles of manu6M$ture in Germany, and at Augsburg a street is men- 
tioned where the " kart«n maadier" lived, and where the business is still 
followed. From hence they were exported in small casks, packed like 

To counteract die ^ect produced by cards, the monks stamped rude 
figures of saints with wooden blocks, and distributed them among the 
people. From hence larger sacred subjects came to be transferred to 
paper by means of wooden blocks, and one of St. Christopher,* canying 
the infant Saviour across the sea, according to a curious legend, was in 
the possession of the late Earl Spencer, bearing the date of 1423. 

In 1433, writing-quills were so scarce at Venice that men of letters 
could scarcely procure them. Ambrosius Traversarius, a monk of 
Camelalde, sent from Venice to his brother a bunch of quills, with a 
letter,, in which he said : ** They are not the best, but such as I received 
as a present ; show the whole bunch to our friend Nicholas, that he may 
select a qmUy for these articles are, indeed, scarcer in this city than at 

* From Chnstum fera A giant of Canaan, who wished to serve the mightiest 
of sovereigns. He found there was one greater than Satan. To try his faith, he 
was told to fetch a staff, and save all who struggled in crossing a river. At length 
a child called' for help; in carrying it over the child got so heavy that his strength 
nearly failed him; but .with a courageous heart, and his trusty staff, he got over. 
The child was Ovir Lor% and the giant became St. Christopher. 

220 Albert Durer. 

Florence." Ambrosius also complains, at the same time, that he had 
scarcely any more ink, and requests that a small vessel filled with U 
might he sent to him.^ 

Soon after this the art of cutting a page of writing upon a wooden 
block, and obtaining an impression from it, was introduced. In this way 
a sort of catechism of the Bible, called *' Biblia Pauperumi" appeared in 

Lawrence Coster, of JIaarlem, is maintained by many to have been the 
first inventor of printing. It is related of him that, while walking in the 
wood near the city (as citizens were wont to do in the afternoon), he 
began to pick out letters on the bark of the beech. With these he 
stamped marks upon paper in the manner of a seal, and at length formed 
sentences for the amusement of the children of his brother-in-law. Being 
a man of inventive genius, he afterwards discovered a glutinous kind of 
ink, and arrived at better things. 

To John Guttenberg, of Mentz, and afterwards of Strasburg, is 
generally ascribed the honour of this great discovery, a.d. 1440. Dr. 
Dibdin faintly hints that the knowledge of block-printing came from the 
Chinese, and was adopted there long ere it was known in Europe. Be 
this as it may, it is now generally admitted that— 

1. John Guttenbergt was the father of printing; 

2. Peter SchoeiferJ the father of type founding; and 

3. John Faust§ the generous patron by whose means the art was 

brought rapidly to perfection. 

After the groundwork of the art had been laid, the rise towards perfection 
is understood to have been more rapid than any other art or science of 
those times. Little more than thirty years elapsed from the time of 
printing the *^ Biblia Pauperum," in 1430, from wooden blocks, to the 
time when Guttenberg and SchcefFer, with Faust's aid,|| had perfected 
their cast- metal types. 

The art of engraving on copper is said to have been invented about 
1460, by a goldsmith of Florence, named Thomas Finignerra. 

The earliest copper-plate engraving is of this time, and the following 
circumstance is said to have led to the discovery. Finiguerra chanced 
to let fall a piece of copper, engraved and filled with ink, into melted 
sulphur, and observing that the exact impression of his work was left on 
the sulphur, he repeated the experiment on moistened paper, rolling it 
gently with a roller. 

Another version is, that a washerwoman left some linen upon a dish on 
which Finiguerra had been engraving, and that an impression of the 
subject came off, however imperfect, upon the linen, occasioned by its 
weight and moisture. 

The Germans contend that it was practised in their country previously; 
that Francis Behold invented it, and his immediate followers were Israel 
de Mechaniel and Martin Stock, or Schon (?) (erroneously stated to have 
been one of the preceptors of Albert Durer), and John Muller, called 

* Beckman's History of Inventions. 

t Anglicfe, good hill. % The shepherd. § A hand. 

i i.e,y John Faust lent a hand to Peter the Shepherd and John of the Good BiH, 
and thus the trio attained great eminence. 

Albert Durer. 221 

In 1471, William Caxton, the London mercer,^ introduced the art of 
printing into England. 

In the same auspicious year the celebrated person of whom we have 
now to speak first saw the light. 

This was at the city of Nuremberg, in Germany, now part of the 
kingdom of Bavaria, and about ninety-six miles north-west of Munich. 

It was then a city of the first importance. The great stream of com- 
merce flowed through that part of Germany. It was before Vasco de 
Gama had doubled the Cape of Good Hope, and opened a way for the 
rich productions of India by that passage. Nuremberg, from soon after 
the time of the Crusades, had grown to be a principal dep6t for Indian 
merchandise^ which came by the Adriatic and the Mediterranean, and so 
from Venice and Genoa. The central position of Nuremberg on the map 
of Europe enabled its traders to diffuse such merchandise by the Rhine 
and the Danube to the north and west of Europe, and along with it to 
dispose of what have long been called Nuremberg wares. Watches, 
called ** Nuremberg eggs," were very early made there by Peter Hele. 
The citizens had a saying : 

Niiniberg hand 
GecUt dorcli alle land. 

Niiruberg's hand 
Goes thro' every land. 

• I • 

And we find that the first German railway was made there as early as 
1836, to Furth» four and a half miles, and that gun-carriages, among other 
things, were first made there. 

It was a &ee city, and furnished the Emperors of Germany with a con- 
tingent of six thousand soldiers. At the present time it is famous for its 
numerous and well-conducted public institutions, for a variety of schools 
—among the latter, for fifteen at which children are supplied with books, 
clothing, and bread gratis. It is also famous for workings in iron and 
other metalS) and for being an emporium — a great emporium^-for cheap 
toys, which are made by the country people in the wooded tract between 
Francpnia and Thuringia. It is a perfect ark of Noah's arks, &c. 

the birth of Albert Durer took place on the 20th May, 1471. 

His father, as is well known, was a goldsmith, as was his grandfather. 
The father came from Cola, in Hungary, and after spending some time 
at Bruges, where he would have ample opportunities of perfecting himself 
in his trade, he settled at Nuremberg, and married the daughter of his 
master, Jerome Haller. 

The entry of his birth in the father^s diary is in the following terms : 
^* Item, In the year 1471 after the birth of Christ, on the <my of St. 
Prudentius, at the sixth hour of the day, on a Friday, in the Holy Week,, 
my wife Barbaja bore me my second son, to whom Anthony Kobiirgher 
was godfather, and he was called Albert, after me." 

Now from this Anthony Kobiirgher we learn that the city of Nurem- 
berg received the art of typography in 1472, and that he was a person 
conspicuously eminent for his learning, as well as for his elegance and cor- 

* Mercers used to import bijouterie along with silk and cloths from the Nether- 
lands, also cards and pictures. 
June — ^VOL. cxxvui. no. dx. q 


222 Albert Durer. 

rectness in printiDg. He was styled " the prioce of printers," and was, 
therefore, a fitting sponsor to one who was afterwards called " the Homer 
of artists," in a city which has been called "the Athens of Ger- 

The good goldsmith, we are told, had no fewer than eighteen children. 
Most of them died in youth, and only two outlived Albert : his brother 
Andreas, who ultimately inherited his stores of art, and his brother Hans, 
who became court printer to the King of Poland. 

His father must have been a good man, for Diirer in his journal says : 
^* My dear father took great pains with his children to teach them how 
to honour God in all things, for his chiefest desire was that he might 
bring them up under such wholesome discipline that they might be 
pleasant both to God and man ; therefore his daily speech to us was, 
that we should abound in love to God, and act faithfully towards our 

When a child, he chose drawing as his recreation, and drew sportively 
different parts of the human body, and even whole figures, with so true a 
hand that they were considered perfectly symmetrical. For the purpose 
of his trade, he had instructions in drawing from Martin Hapse. 

Before he was sixteen, Albert, who was a handsome, intellectual youth, 
had attained such proficiency in the art of a goldsmith, that we are told 
he executed a fine piece of chased silver, representing the " Seven Falls 
of our Saviour." This was from a tradition in the Roman Catholic 
Church, that our Saviour fell seven times while bearing his cross op 
Mount Calvary. 

The intention of his father was that he should follow his own trade of 
a goldsmith (no doubt to help to keep the family, which was becoming a 
serious charge). The son's genius took a nobler flight. His instinct was 
to become a painter. His father yielded to his desire, and placed him 
with Michael Wohlgemuth, the artist, to whom he was apprenticed, in 
1486, for three years, to learn the art and mystery of a limner. f 

Having so far surrendered his own judgment to his son, the father 
seems to have done all he could to further the latter's views. When oat 
of his time, called his ^' lehre jahre," the father complied with the artist 
custom of the age, and which prevails to this day, and sent him abroad 
for improvement, on his '^ wander jahre," as it was, and is still, called. 

This was in 1490, when he was nineteen. 

He went from town to town, painting for his living whomsoever he 
could get to sit to him, and found a ready welcome among all who culti- 
vated art. 

Before this time Savonarola had exposed the corruption of the Romish 
Church, and the light of the Reformation was spreading over Europe. 
— ^The curtain had been fairly lifted upon the great theatre of the world;— 
the dark ages had passed away, and a multiplied intelligence was shedding 
its influence abroad ; — poetry had begun to flourish in Germany ; — the 

* If it be desired to ^x the date of Diirer's birth, it was fourteen days sftertiie 
battle of Tewkesbury had replaced the^Yorkist Edward lY. on the throne of 

t He was intended to be placed with Martin Schon, of Colmar, but the latter^ 
death prevented this. 

Albert DUrer. 223 

study of the Greek language had heen introduced in England; — arts and 
commerce were in the ascendant ;-— the hrilliant reign of Ferdinand and 
Isabella of Spain was graced by the discoveries of Columbus ; — and " the 
last sigh of the Moor" had been breathed by King Boabdil on quitting 
his palace of the Alhambra. — The mighty Luther had also come upon 
the stage ! 

It was during thb stirring time that our young artist was upon his 
travels, and became acquainted with some of the leading spirits of the 
age. Nor was he long in espousing the principles of the Reformation, 
along with his friend Wilibald Pirkheimer. 

His pencil, however, was not idle. He then laid the foundation of a 
great reputation as a painter. 

Having abode four years in foreign parts, during which time he went 
over Germany, the Netherlands, and the Venetian States, " my father," 
he says, '* called me back to himself at Whitsuntide, 1494." 

The next step was one that had a material influence on his future life. 
It was his marriage. From gratitude, probably, to his father, for having 
allowed him to become a painter, he seems to have yielded to his father's 
views on this most important matter. Hans Frey (a mechanist of some 
note), he says, ^'bargained with my father j while I was abroad to give 
me his daughter to wife, a young maiden, by name Agnes, and with her 
two hundred florins."* 

The marriage was in 1494, when Albert was twenty- three years 
of age. 

Three years after (1497) he exhibited a painting for the first time in 
public. It was '' the Three Graces," holding a globe over their heads. 
It was usual at that time for students to exhibit one of their best works, 
and we learn that the diploma of Master of Painting was gained by Durer 
with more than ordinary honour. 

His father, soon after, fell sick, *' in such sort," he says, '* that no one 
was able to cure him ; and when he saw death plainly before his eyes he 
gave himself up willingly thereto with great patience, commending my 
mother to my care, and charging us to live godly." 

The *' bargaining" which he had mentioned, seems to have bartered 
away the happiness of the young artist. 

The good Albert had married a shrew. 

Whether from this cause or not we won't stop to say, but we find he 
was soon afoot for foreign parts, and that he was not slow in proceeding 
to Venice, where he stayed nearly all the following year.f 

Albert's letters to his friend Pirkheimer are preserved at Nuremberg. 
He writes : " I wish you were here ; there are so many pleasant com- 
panions among the Italians, who are the longer the more friendly with 
me." He also says : *' I have given the painters a good rubbing down ; 
who said that I was good only at engraving, but knew not how to touch 
colours. Now they say they have never seen finer colours." He here 
met vrith the painter Bellini, then about eighty, the father of the 
Venetian school, which afterwards produced Giorgoni and Titian. One 

* A florin, or guilder, was worth about 98. = 90/. 

f This was in 1505, a year when shillings were first coined in England, and four 
years before gardening was introduced there from the Netiieriands, from whence 
vegetables had thitherto been imported. 


224 Albert Durer. 

of Bellini's pictures, a " Virgin and Child," produced 4000/. in 1819, at 
Lebrun's sale in Pans. Another, a '^ Madonna," which had been carried. 
ofF from thence by Napoleon to the Louvre, was, after the peace of 1815, 
restored to the church of St. Zacharias, where it is valued at 8000Z. 

Bellini desired to have one of Durer's works, and praised him highly. 
He also asked, as a keepsake, for one of the pencils with which he drew 
fine lines. Diirer held out a handful, telling him to choose one, '^ for he 
could do it with them all." 

While at Venice he painted a full length of *' Adam and Eve" for a 
German church, and the " Martyrdom of St. Bartholomew** for St 
Mark's. The latter rose so high in public favour that the Emperor 
Rudolph II. sent orders that it should be bought for him at any price, 
and be borne on poles by strong men on foot (instead of the ordinary 
mode of carriage) from Venice to Prague, where it is still to be seen. 

As respects the " Adam and Eve," an admirer of Diirer, Gaspar Velius, 
said (perhaps rather profanely), " That when an angel saw it he consi- 
dered that there must have been some mistake, as he did not think he had 
driven two such good-looking persons out of Paradise."* 

While at Venice, at the age of thirty-five, he began to learn to dance^ 
that he might keep up with the customs of the place — viz. to dance, 
fence, and sing; but <* after two lessons, which cost a ducat," he adds, 
^' he could make nothing of it." 

His letters from Venice are written with great cheerfulness, except 
when he touches upon his return. There appears no mention of any 
letters from his wife; but both she and his mother seem to have been 
especially cared for by himself. 

He went to Bologna '^ to learn some secrets in perspective," and there 
met Rafiaelle, with whom he had already corresponded, and who esteemed 
him highly. They exchanged portraits, and subsequently prints and 
drawings. While here he was invited to Mantua by Andrea Mont^^a, 
who from a shepherd's boy had become a great painter and engraver, but 
who died before Diirer arrived. 

From Bologna he writes : ''I will come by the first convoy. Oh, 
how I shall freeze when away from the sun. Here I am my own 
master. At home I am a ' schamaroyer ;' " literally a parasite, bat probaUy 
a slave. 

He returned in 1507, with the reputation of being the best painter of 
his country. 

Vasari, in his ^* Lives of Painters" (published in Florence in 1538), says: 
^' If this diligent, industrious, and universal roan had been a native of 
Tuscany, and if he could have studied at Rome, he would have been the 
best painter of our country, as he was the most celebrated that Germany 
had then produced." 

From 1507 to 1520 there are scanty records of his life; but in 1511 
he painted what is said to have been his masterpiece, " The Adoration of 
the Trinity," which is in the Belvedere Gallery at Vienna. 

His letters to his friend Heller, of Frankfort, are preserved. In one of 
these he speaks of his wife Agnes as ** our mistress of arithmetic." He 
mentions also the pains he had taken with a picture, '' The Ascension of 

* « Angelas hos ceroens miratus dixit, ab horto 
!Non it4 formosos vos ego depuleram.*' 

Albert DUrer. 225 

the Virgin," having gone over it ^yQ or six times with good ultramarine ; 
and '' after it was quite finished, he had painted it over yet again twice 
that it might keep long." He believes, with care and being kept without 
holy water being cast upon it, it would keep five hundred years. The 
holy water was mixed with salt, which was corrosive. 

In the Manchester Exhibition there were three of his paintings — one, a 
portrait of his father (painted in 1497, when he was twenty-six, shortly 
before hb father's death), was lent by her Majesty. It had more fresh- 
ness of colouring than many a modern picture. 

In 1520 — ^the year in which BaiFaelle died, as well as that of the cele- 
brated meeting between Henry VHI. and Francis L, in Flanders, called 
the Field of the Cloth of Gold — Durer again set out on his travels. 
This time he was accompanied by his wife and her maid, or humble friend, 

They visited Frankfort, Mentz, Audernach, Bonn, and Cologne (at 
the latter place he gave his cousin Nicholas his black-lined coat bor- 
dered with velvet), and thence to Antwerp. The latter city was then in 
such a state of prosperity, that more business is said to have been done 
there in a month than at Venice in the height of her prosperity in two 
years. The Scheldt was pretty much what the Thames, comparatively 
speaking, is now, and Antwerp was at once a Manchester and Liverpool 

" On St. Oswald's day," he says, " the painters invited me to their 
hall with my wife and her maid, and they had everything in silver vessels, 
-with other costly adornments, and a still more costly dinner. Their 
wives also were all there ; and as I was led to dinner, there stood the 

people on both sides as if they were leading in some great lord 

As I sat there, a messenger from the council of the city, with two serving- 
men, came and presented me, in the name of the burgomasters of Ant- 
werp, with four jars of wine, and desired therewith to express to me their 
great respect and good will. I expressed to the same my humble thanks, 
and made offer of my hearty service. Thereafter came Master Peter, the 
carpenter of the city, and presented more wine. Then, seeing that we 
remained long and pleasantly together, even until late in the night, they 
accompanied me home in high honour with torches."f 

Durer speaks of having been in the house of Master Quintines— > 
meaning Quentin Matsys;|; — the blacksmith painter, then above sixty 
years of age, and probably at the height of his fame, with whom he also 

He saw here a triumphal arch which the painters were then making 
for the coronation of the Emperor Charles V., which Durer afterwards 
witnessed at Aix-la-Chapelle. 

He also speaks of a great procession to the Church of our Lady, the 
cathedral at Antwerp, which lasted two days, and is minutely described 
in his journal. He adds : '^ They spare no cost on such things, for they 
have money enough." 

Being on a short journey through Zealand, he was nearly lost by a 
storm arising when about to land from a boat off the island of Wal- 

♦ Quarterly Review, vol. cxii. 410. 

+ This would probably exceed the banquet given to M. Gallait, " the artist of 
B^gium," by the artists of England, during *< the Exhibition" last year. 
X ** Quem Amor de mulcibre fecit Apellem." 

226 Albert DUrer. 

cheren — the rope broke, and they were carried out to sea. He spoke to 
the master that " he should keep a good heart aud trust in God." Help 
coming, they got safely ashore. 

On Shrove Tuesday, 1521, the goldsmiths gave him and his wife a 
grand entertainment, and they received from one of the chief magistrates 
a banquet at night. 

At Bruges,* which he calls " a magnificent and beautiful city," and 
which Robertson, the historian, shows us was "the greatest emporium 
in all Europe,"t the painters, sixty in number, gave him another banquet, 
and the bells would doubtless sound the " carillon" of which Longfellow 
has sung, and who also says : 

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry, old and brown. 
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town. 

A like reception and torchlight escort awaited him at Ghent,J where, 
and at several other places, his keep was paid as well as his travelling 
expenses from one place to another. These facts are alluded to to show the 
liberal spirit that commerce had diffused among those flourishing cities. 

When at Antwerp he was sent for to Brussels by a celebrated lady of 
that time, Margaret Duchess-Dowager of Savoy, governess of the Nether- 
lands, aunt of the Emperor Charles V., and who herself negotiated a 
peace with the mother of Francis I. This was after the latter had been 
taken prisoner at the battle of Favia, and when, as Burton, in his '' Ana- 
tomy of Melancholy," tells us, Francis was " ad mortem fere melancholius," 
Francis wrote to his mother that " all was lost but honour," and the two 
kings had nearly arranged to fight a duel to settle the issue between 
them. The mother and aunt met at Cambray, and being lodged in 
adjoining houses, between which a communication was opened, they met 
together, says Robertson, without ceremony or observation, and held 
daily conferences, to which no person whatever was admitted. § And so 
peace was concluded. 

To the Duchess Margaret Diirer presented his engravings of the 
Passion and the St. Jerome, and soon after received the appointment of 
imperial court painter, with a continuance of the annuity of one hundred 
florins he had received from the Emperor Maximilian, then dead. The 
original grant is in the archives of Nuremberg. 

While on this subject, we may mention that it is related by Philip 
Melancthon,|| who knew him well, that " the Emperor Maximilian wished 
to sketch something for Diirer, the charcoal broke so often that he threw 
it impatiently away. Diirer took it up and completed the sketch. Being 
asked by the emperor why it broke so often with him and not with 
Diirer, the latter replied, ' Gracious sire, this is my kingdom ; here I 
rule, and the charcoal is my sceptre. You have harder duties and an- 
other calling.' " 

A nobleman also thought himself slighted in being asked by the 
emperor to hold the ladder to Diirer. Maximilian held it himself, saying, 

♦ »*Formo8is Burga puellis." f Charles V., vol. 1. note 30. 

X So extensive a city in Charles Y.'s reign, that he used to say he could put 
Paris into his gand (glove). 

§ Robertson's Charles Y., vol. 11. p. 331. 

II He was Diirer's junior by twenty-six years. 

Albert JDiirer. 227 

'^ be could make an artist a nobleman, but could not make a nobleman 
an artist" 

The emperor, it is said, granted him a patent of nobility, but this is 
hardly credited. It is certain that he was a member of the higher 
coaneil, and had a coat-of-arms — ^two open doors — a rebus on his name,* 
signifying "doors." 

When at Brussels he had much intercourse with Erasmus, whose 
portrait he painted twice,' and who, he says, was a little man, and pre- 
sented him with a Spanish mantle. 

Being at Antwerp soon after this, he (Uke many at the time) was 
greatly alarmed at an incident in the life of Luther, and which is well 
known. It was that when returning from the Diet at Worms, he was 
seized on passing through a wood, and carried off by armed men to the 
castle of Wartburg (which he called his Patmos). The arrest was 
through the friendly care of the Elector Frederick of Saxony, to guard him 
from treacherous foes. Durer did not know this for some time, and in his 
journal the capture is bewailed in the most pathetic terms. He sent an 
appeal to Erasmus *' to ride forth as a Christian knight against this 
unjust tyranny ; to g^in the truth or attain the martyr's crown, being 
already an aged man." Erasmus outlived Diirer, but was more politic 
than belligerent in his espousal of the principles of the Reformation. 

While at Antwerp, in 1621, there occurs a sad passage in his journal. 
He says : *^ I was here overcome by a strange sickness, of which I have 
never heard from any men, and this sickness I have yet.*' 

It was no other than consumption, and seems to have terminated the 
mortal career of the steadfast and noble-minded Diirer within seven years 
from this time. 

Notwithstanding that his bodily powers were gradually wasting away, 
he worked with even greater diligence than before. Besides keeping up 
his painting and engraving, he commenced as an author in 1525. His 
first work was '* On Geometry and Mechanics," with directions how to 
use the rule and compasses, dedicated to Pirkheimer. 

The second was *' Some Directions for the Fortifications of Cities, 
Castles, and Burghs," dedicated to Ferdinand King of Hungary and 

The third was " On the Proportions of the Human Body," in four 
books, a work displaying great knowledge of anatomy. 

Of these works he only lived to correct and publish the first. The 
other three, which he left in manuscript, were afterwards published 
by Pirkheimer, who adds some interesting remarks, greatly lament- 
ing his early death, and telling of works '^ which he had still designed to 
write, valuable to artists and lovers of art, had God granted him a longer 

Of these works splendid copies are in the library of the British 

In the MSS. department is the Scrap-book of Diirer, along with the 
materials for a work called ^^ oTrXa SidatrKokca,^* on the use of arms, with 
" A Treatise on Fencing and the Broadsword," also two hundred of his 
original sketches (many of which were the bequest of Nollekins the 
sculptor), and thirty-seven of the original blocks of his engraving of " The 

228 Albert Durer. 

Durer died at Nuremberg, April 8, 1528, at the comparatiyelj early 
age of fifty-seven. 

The grief and lamentation were so great, that Nuremberg was a dtjr 
of mourning. '* The only sound that broke the general silence," says 
dne of his biographers, *' was that of the whispers which ran from mouth 
to mouth, telling too plainly of what all believed to have been the cause 
of, or at least hastening, the sad event." 

Pirkheimer, writing to a friend, openly declares his own and the gene- 
ral belief on this subject. He says : '^ In Albert I have lost one of the 
best friends I ever had on earth ; and what grieves me more than all is, 
that he died such a wretched death, which, under the will of God, I can 
ascribe to none other than his wife, who gnawed into his heart, and 
tormented him in such sort that he went home so much more quickly, for 
he was worn a^y to an atomy." It has been said that her »tting-rooni 
was under his studio, and that she was accustomed to give an admonitory 
knock against the ceiling when she suspected that '' he was not getting 
forward with his work;" but this is supposed to apply to another artist, 
who had not the industry of DUrer. 

Pirkheimer, in his letter, continues : " She always did as if she would 
come to starve, though Albert has left her the worth of near 6000 florins." 
And they had no children. He concludes : " But, however this may be^ 
we must commend the cause to God, who will be gracious and merciAil to 
the good Albert, who like as he lived a pious and upright life, so did he 
die a Christian and blessed death." 

It is proper to give these extracts in the attached friend's own words, 
for he was a man of great consideration at that time. He was one of the 
councillors of state to the then Emperors of Germany, where his name is 
still held in respect as the friend of Diirer and Melancthon. 

The senate of Nuremberg accorded to Diirer a public funeral. 

It was the first place in Germany that had a burying-ground outside 
the city walls. Having been formed in 1519, it may be that Diirer had 
some hand in it, for he was for some time chief magistrate, and was fore- 
most in every improvement. The city fortifications were his work on a 
new plan. 

The inscription on his tombstone was : 

M.S. AL. DU. 

Quidquid Alberti Diireri 

Mortale fuit 
Sub hoc conditur tumulo. 
Emigravit viii idus Aprilis 


To which Pirkheimer is said to have added : 

A. DuEER; 

Artium lumen, 

Sol artificum, 



Sculptor sme exemplo. 

A.D. 1471 ad 1528. 

Upon the stone becoming defaced by age, it was restored in 1651 by 

Albert Durer. 229 

Sandrart, a celebrated painter of that time. He 'founded the Academy 
of Arts at Nuremberg, and strove to repair the damage which art had 
sustained by the Thirty Years' War in Germany. 

The artists now take care of the tombstone, and a yearly pilgrimage 
is made to it by the citizens of Nuremberg on the anniversary of his 

During the last fifteen years a statue has been -erected to his memory 
at Nuremberg, and no lesst ban fourteen medals are said to have been 
struck to his honour. 

He was of a free and generous nature, of great tenderness of heart and 
urbanity of manner, a stranger to low jealousy, and ever ready to ac- 
knowledge merit in others. 

In personal appearance he had a fine brow, an aquiline nose, and his 
long dark- brown hair fell in graceful curls upon his sjioulders. Mrs. 
Jameson refers particularly to the striking appearance of one of his 
portraits, and its resemblance to some of the ideal heads of our Saviour. 

His wife was also handsome : her face appears in several of his heads 
of the Madonna. We must do her the justice of stating that she left 
a legacy for the students at Wittenberg.* This is mentioned by 
Melancthon, and he says he has '' inform^ Luther and others of the 
good deed." 

There were some celebrated men at Nuremberg in Diirer s time- 
viz. : 

Martin Behaim, who invented the terrestrial globe, and drew the first 
geographical charts ; his original sphere is preserved there ; 

Hans Sachs, the *^ Cobbler bard,"! who wrote six thousand poems and 
other works, and which are praised by Schlegel ; and 

Three sculptors, viz. : Veit Stoss ; Peter Vischer, who made the 
bronze shrine in St. Sebald ; and Adam Krafft, who carved an altar 
canopy at St. Lawrence over the Fix, where the sacred vessels are 

The lesson which DUrer*s life conveys to us is important. He was a 
man of toil ; that toil, well directed, gained him undying fame. 

The number of his works of art is said to have been as many as twelve 
hundred and fifty-four, chiefly on sacred subjects. Of these, one hundred 
and seventeen paintings were known to exist in 1819, and more have 
been made out since. Nor was it in the number of his works that he was 
famous, but in the attention to minute detail, and the excellence and 
durability of his colouring. 

In Bryan's " Dictionary of Painters," written about forty years ago, 
the author says : '* Born in the infancy of the art, he carried engraving 
to a perfection which has since been hardly surpassed. If we merely 
consider his command of the graver as well as the remarkable neatness 
and clearness of his stroke, he will appear an artist of extraordinary 
merit, not only for the time in which he lived, but at any period of the 
art that has succeeded him. Even after the experience of three centuries, 
it would, perhaps, be difficult to find a more perfect specimen of executive 
excellence than the * St. Jerome,' engraved in 1514." The invention of 

* The cradle of the Reformation, and the burial-place of Luther and Melancthon. 

f See Longfellow's Lines on Nuremberg. 

230 Albert DUrer. 

etchiDg is conceded to him, and a method of printing from woodcots in 
two colours. 

He was skilled in optics and geometry, was a mechanician and an 
engineer, and, as a sculptor, there is a work of his in hone stone in the 
Britbh Museum, bequeathed by Mr. Payne Knight, who bought it at 
Brussels, about fifty years ago, for 500/. The subject is the birth of Si 

In the Manchester Exhibition there were many striking engravings of 
bis, some of large size. They made a deep impression upon the writer, 
and caused him to look more into the artist's works than he might 
otherwise have done, and, perhaps, to trouble the gentle reader with 
these jottings. 

He was the first in Germany who taught the rules of perspective, and 
the proportions of the human body according to mathematical and ana» 
tomical principles. 

He had many pupils ; and Mr. Ottley, in his work *' On Engraving," 
says : '^ The numerous and flourishing school of wood-engravers, which we 
find spreading in Germany, and thence to Italy, in the sixteenth century, 
owes its excellence to Albrecht Durer." 

His prints and woodcuts, on account of their artistic principles, were 
I urchased by the Italian painters for their improvement. So much were 
they sought after, that they were extensively counterfeited both at home 
and abroad. 

A Venetian, Marc Antonio Franci, or Raimondi, who afterwards be- 
came a celebrated engraver, was so much struck with them, that Mr. 
Ottley says : *^ The example of Diirer, no doubt, contributed to render 
Baimondi competent, in after time, to the task of engraving the exquisite 
designs of Raffaelle." 

This being so, we may excuse Raimondi for taking exact copies (he 
made fac-similes with paper soaked in olive-oil), but we can't pardon his 
having afterwards transferred them to plates, together with a stamp, which 
was taken for Diirer's well-known monogram. 

Durer, some say, went to Venice to stop this traffic ; but this journey 
is not authenticated. He probably exercised the court influence he pos- 
sessed in Germany to induce the senate of Venice to interfere in the 
matter, which they did, though Dtirer, it is said, interceded to prevent 
any imprisonment being inflicted. 

While this was going on abroad, there were Flemish and other artists 
at Nuremberg who openly sold counterfeit copies of bis engravings, and 
a magistrate's order to prohibit this trade is preserved among the archives 
of Nuremberg, dated 1508. 

In spite of all this, it was from his engravings that he chiefly profited. 
The prices obtained for his pictures were hardly remunerative, so much 
labour was bestowed upon them. 

Engravers in general are the translators of other men's ideas, but Diirer 
designed and engraved his own compositions. Upon this Mr. Jackson, in 
his work "On Engraving," edited by Chatto, in 1838, says: "Setting 
aside his merits as a painter, I am of opinion that no artist of the pre- 
sent day has produced from his own designs three such engravings as 
Diirer's * Adam and Eve,' * St. Jerome,' and the subject called * Melan- 
colia.' " 

Albert Dikrer. 231 

To our eyes there may appear a singularity, and perhaps an awkward- 
ness about his figures, and a stiffness in the costumes. There is, certainly, 
no crinoline. The stiffness was owing to the practice then prevalent in 
Germany of putting wetted, paper upon the lay figure instead of cloth. 
When dry, the folds or creases of the paper acquired a stiff appearance, 
which was communicated to the picture. 

No doubt he lacked the grace and tenderness which Raffaelle at that 
time was the means of diffusing in Italy ; but even Raffaelle' s pictures 
are hardly in accordance with our ideas or taste. 

Diirer had not the advantage of Italian culture, and the climate 
of Germany might not be so inspiring as cloudless Italy. 

Mr. Ruskin thinks there is a tone of domesticity in his works, and that 
scenes of daily life were more in his way than the sublime and grand. 

All art critics, however, concede to him a great fertility of invention, 
wonderful manipulation, and decided excellence in colouring. 

Considering what art was at the time he lived, and that he was really 
a self-made man, we may not be surprised that he should have created the 
epoch which is ascribed to him, and that he should have been considered 
almost as an originator of the art of engraving. 

His friend Melancthon said '* his least merit was that of his art." 

His chief characteristic, we believe, was reverence to the Creator and 
admiration of all His works. 

This deep religious feeling, and his warm espousal of the principles of 
the Reformation, caused him to place quotations from the Gospels and 
Epistles under many of his pictures, with warnings not to swerve from 
the written word, or listen to false prophets or perverters of the truth. 
When some of these pictures so inscribed were presented by the city of 
Nuremberg to the Roman Catholic Elector, Maximilian of Bavaria, in 
1627, a singular course was adopted for preserving the pictures from the 
fanaticism of after times. This was to cut off these inscriptions, and to 
affix them to copies they had made for the city by Vischer, and which are 
now in the Landenaer Gallery at Nuremberg. 

With such a testimony as Melancthon's, and knowing the enlightening 
influence which Diirer exercised upon the age in which he lived, we may 
well regard him as one of the pioneers of civilisation, to whose memoirs 
and works we may profitably recur, and about whom and his native city 
we cannot be surprised that the poet Longfellow should have penned the 
following lines: 

In the valley of the Peguitz, where, amid broad meadow lands 
Kise the blue Eranconian Mountains, Nuremberg the ancient stands. 

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song. 
Memories haunt thy pointed gables like the rooks that round them throng. 

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, 
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time defying, centuries old ; 

And thy grave and thrifty burghers boasted in their uncouth rhyme, 
That their great imperial city stretched its hand to ev'ry clime. 

In the court-yard of thy castle, girt with many an iron band. 
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand ; 

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days. 
Sat the poet Melchior, singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. 

232 The Horse and the Ass, 

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of art, 
Eountams wrought with choicest sculpture standing in the common mart; 

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, 
£y a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. 

In the church of sainted Sabald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, 

And in bronze the twelve apostles guard from age to age their trust.* 

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a Pixf of sculpture rare, 
Like a foamy sheet of fountains, rising thro' the painted air. 

Here, where art was still religion, with a simple reverent heart. 
Lived and laboured Albrecht Diirer, the Evangelist of Art ; 

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand. 
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. 

" Emigravit" is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies. 
Dead he is not — but departed — for the artist never dies. 

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair. 
That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air ! 

J* S« 



By Edgar A. Bowring, C.B. 

A TKAiK was rushing along one day 
With carriages, engine, and tender; 

The chimney vomited forth its smoke. 
Like a dashing old offender. 

The train pass'd a farm-yard, and over the hedge 
A grey horse, at the sound of the whistle, 

Stretch'd out his head ; an ass stood by 
Demurely chewing a thistle. 

With wondering gaze the horse long stared 
At the train ; then strangely quivering 

In every limb, he sigh'd and said : — 
"The sight has set me a-shivering! 

"I'm sure that if I by nature had been 

A chesnut, or black, or bay horse. 
My skin would with fright its colour change, 

And make me (as now) a grey horse ! 

• Peter Vischer's work. 

f Adam Ejrafilt, which we referred to ante. 

The Horse and the Ass. 233 

"The equine race is doom*d, beyond donbt. 

To be swept away in fate's eddy; 
Although I'm a grey horse, I cannot but see 

A black future before me already. 

"The competition of these machines 

Will certainly kill us poor horses ; 
For riding and driving will man prefer 

Iron steeds, if so great their force is. 

"And if man can get on without our help 

Alike for riding and driving, 
Good-by to our oats, good-by to our hay ! — 

What chance have we of surviving ? 

" The heart of man is hard as a stone, 

He gives away nothing gratis ; 
They'll drive us out of our stables, and we 

Shall starve — what a cruel fate 'tis ! 

" We cannot borrow, and cannot steal. 

Like mortals whose natures are blacker; 
We cannot fawn like men and dogs. 

But shall fall a prey to the knacker." 

Thus grumbled the horse, and deeply sigh'd. 

Meanwhile the ass hard by him 
Had (][uietly chew'd two thistle-tops. 

As if nothing could terrify him. 

He presently answer'd in dainty tones. 

With his tongue first licking his muzzle ; — 
" With what the future may have in store. 

My brains I shall not puzzle. 

" You horses proud are threatened, no doubt. 

By a future that's far from pleasant. 
But we modest asses are not afraid 

Of dangers future or present. 

"That grey horses, and chesnut, and piebald, and black, 

May DC done without, true, alas is; 
But Mister Steam, with his chimney long. 

Can never replace us asses. 

" However clever may be the machines 

Made by man with his senses besotted, 
The ass as his portion will always have 

Sure means of existence allotted. 

" Its asses will Heaven, I'm sure, ne'er desert, 

Who, moved by a calm sense of duty. 
Turn the mill ev'ry day as their fathers have done— 

(A sight not deficient in beauty). 

" The mill-wheel clatters, the miller works hard. 

The meal in the sack well shaking. 
And people eat their bread and their roUs, 

As soon as they've finish'd the baking. 

" In Nature's old-fashion'd and jog-trot way 

The world will keep spinning for ever ; 
And as changeless even as Nature herself 

The ass wul alter never." 

( 234 ) 


The hour of the temporal princes — of the worldly bishops of Geneva, 
whose only ambition it was to live in wealth, luxury, pomp, and power, 
without a care or a thought for their ignoble flocks — had not yet struck, 
even with the fearful dissolution of John — the Bastard of Savoy — and the 
most malignant of its prince-bishops. Peter de la Baume, the successor 
to John, was received with ostentation, if not with gladness, and this 
grandiose reception was soon followed by a notification to the effect that 
Charles III. wished to present his spouse, Beatrice of Portugal, to '' his 
good friends of Geneva." He, indeed, planned that her accouchement 
should take place in that city. The citizens allowed themselves to be 
seduced by the chains which were brought to them by so renowned a 
beauty and so noble an alliance, for Portugal was at tlist time at the 
zenith of prosperity and renown. The reception was got up with a raar- 
vellous amount of sumptuousness. The priestly party wished especially 
to impress upon royalty that the good Genevese were more taken with 
relics and miracles tnan with the Gospel and independence ; but Beatrice 
spoilt everything by her haughty and disdainful manners. " We had 
better have spent our money in fortifying the city," muttered the despised 
Huguenots. Royalty persevered, however, in its attempt to seduce the 
Genevese by a constant succession of balls, banquets, plays, and other 
pastimes and indulgences. 

Another power had come into Geneva at the same epoch, but with no 
pomp. or display of any kind. This was the Gospel. Lefevre had pub- 
lished a French translation of this New Testament in the preceding year 
(1522), and it had reached Vienna and Grenoble from Lyons. Thence 
it came to Geneva, where the colporteurs of the Holy Word were received 
with open arms by De la Maison Neuve, Vandel, and other liberals. 
The Gospel realised their ideas of a religious as well as a political inde- 
pendence. They found no masses, no indulgences, no pope, no worship 
of relics, no temporal priesthood in those books ; but they found in them 
a power superior to pontiffs, prelates, and even councils. New life, nev 
doctrine, new authority. It was as if the vivifying breath of spring had 
been breathed over the city, after a long, dark, and rigorous winter. The 
Huguenots could not, however, dispense at once with the old system of 
** mysteries." That of the discovery of the cross by the Empress Helena, 
had been played by the priests before the duke and duchess ; the inde- 
pendents got up the less gorgeous, but more enduring, spectacle of '' the 
discovery of the Bible by the Reformation." The duke and duchess 
naturally declined being present, but the spectacle was enacted, and it was 
another step taken towards that Reformation which has been generally 
supposed to have commenced at a much later epoch in the city of Calvin. 

The party of Savoy resented these demonstrations. Their creatures 
took every occasion for insulting and even beating those whom they 
happened to have business relations with. The sturdy burgesses resisted 
those acts of tyranny, and returned the blows with interest. The duke 
was alarmed, and sent for six thousand men to assist at the accouchement 
"Six thousand godfathers/' said the Huguenots, "armed cap-^-pie.^ 

Dawn of the Gospel in Geneva. 235 

The great event at length came off. The duchess was safely delivered 
of a son on the 2nd of December, and the duke in ecstasy declared that 
Geneva should belong to his wife. That the prince bom in their city 
should be repelled by the Genevese never entered the imaginations of the 
Savoyards. The first step was to obtain that the vidame should take his 
oath of allegiance to the duke. This was contrary to the constitution, 
for the vidame was the representative of the prince-bishop and not of the 
duke. A vidame is '^ a judge of a bishop's temporal jurisdiction," ac* 
cording to Boyer. The duke was accordingly opposed in these preten- 
sions by the Huguenot jurisconsult Levrier. The next step was to 
assume the administration of justice over the episcopal council. Here 
again he was opposed by the inflexible Levrier, as well as by the priest- 
hood itself. Thus, for a moment, the Church and the liberals made com- 
mon cause, a circumstance that induced royalty to advocate one of the 
most extreme acts of independence, the separation of Church and State. 
But first it was essential to strike down Levrier, who would not admit 
the sovereignty of the duke. The patriot was accordingly seized and 
carried off to the castle of Bonne, on his way out of the cathedral. The 
duke and duchess had previously taken themselves off to the church of 
Notre- Dame des Graces without the city, in case of an insurrection. To 
the remonstrances of the people the only answer that was vouchsafed 
was, *^ Let the Genevese admit themselves to be my subjects, and I will 
restore their judge to them." The people would have given up their 
lives for Levrier, but they would not give up their country. Levrier 
himself strengthened them in their decision. The fair sex appealed to 
Beatrice, but in vain. Levrier, after having been cruelly tortured, was 
decapitated by torchlight, at ten o'clock at night, in the court of the 
castle of Bonne. The castle is now a ruin, and the act entailed the loss 
of many thousands of lives to the Savoyards. The people were bursting 
with indignation ; even the Genevese courtiers abandoned the duke, terri* 
fied at his cruelty. Charles, terrified at the position in which he had 
placed himself in presence of the citizens, whose country he had so long 
coveted, withdrew to Turin, and no sooner was he gone than the popular 
indignation found vent against the Mamluks who remained behind. The 
syndic Richardet summoned the Mamluk treasurer Boulet to render an 
account of the city finances. Boulet refused to gratify the syndic, because 
he was an Huguenot. The latter, in a moment of irritation, raised his 
stick and dealt the treasurer so effective a blow, that the emblem of office 
was broken to pieces. Boulet went to Chauberg to lay his complaint 
before the duke, and the Council of Geneva was summoned to appear in 
that city before the Council of Savoy. Many citizens were arrested at the 
same time, and cast into the dungeons of Gaillard. The Genevese^ 
strange to say, appealed to the Pope. Hugues had succeeded to the place 
vacated by the martyred Berthelier and Levrier, and he attempted at first 
to oppose the pretensions of Savoy by legal means. The appeal had the 
effect, however, of inducing the duke to promise a cessation of vexations 
if it was withdrawn. But the liberab would admit of no compromise with 
so treacherous an assistant. The duke then advanced with his army to 
Geneva. The Huguenot chiefs had only time to fly out by one gate, as 
the ducal troops poured in by the other. Most of them reached Friburg 
in 8t£ety : Hugues by seizing the horse of a traitor sent to arrest him ; 
but Chabot fell into the hands of a post established at Versoix. 

236 Dawn of the Gospel in Geneva. 

There were many friends of Zwingle and of the Reformation in 
Friburg, and Berne and Soleure united with its citizens in despatching 
an embassy to Geneva. " Remain firm," they said to the Genevese, 
'^ and fear nothing ; our lords will maintain you in your rights." The 
duke was disconcerted by this embassy, and he had recourse, as usual, to 
stratagem. He requested those who had fled to return, promising to do 
them justice. But the Huguenots saw through the plot, and they not 
only declined the invitation, but they sent for their wives and children. 
The duke then summoned a council-general, and got himself named Pro- 
tector of the city. Considering himself already prince, he next demanded 
that all matters of jurisdiction should be handed over to him, and that 
the alliance with the Swiss should be broken ofip. But he met with a 
refusal in both instances, and so much was he annoyed at these signs of 
opposition, that he once more took himself off, and that for the last time. 
Neither he nor his successors ever returned to Geneva. Charles III. had 
not been long away before the citizens re-established their franchises, 
tumbled the Mamluks, rejected the protectorate, and re-demanded alliance 
with Switzerland. They were seconded in this by the prince-bishop, 
although Zurich had already adopted the Reformation, because, although 
fearing the power of the duke, he had still greater dread of losing through 
him his temporal charges. 

An alliance, without which the Reformation would never have been 
established in Geneva, was then effected between Berne, Friburg, and 
Geneva in the name of the Trinity. The excited citizens returned to 
their hearths. The bishop, the clergy, and the party of Savoy opposed 
themselves in vain to the alliance. It was their turn now to fly. and they 
did so with the utmost precipitation. Geneva was at the culmination ci 
happiness. Te Deums were sung, the memory of the martyrs was 
honoured ; festivities and rejoicings were universal. 

With this epoch the scene changes. The historian suddenly emerges 
from the record of the troubles and trials of a small population, whose 
greatest heroes were obscure citizens, to consider the religious moTement 
taking place simultaneously in an adjacent great empire, and to which 
Geneva itself was ultimately indebted for its Reformation. The spirit 
of awakening manifested itself in France at first in isolated spots — at 
Staples, on the Manche ; at Gap, in Dauphiny ; and at Noyon, an 
ancient and once illustrious city of Picardy. It was this spirit that gave 
birth to Lefivre, to Farel, and to Calvin. 

" This French people," says the historian, *' who in the opinion of 
many interest themselves only in war and diplomacy ; this country, of a 
philosophy often sceptical and sometimes ironically incredulous; this 
nation, which proclaimed itself, and still proclaims itself, to be the eldest 
daughter of Rome, gave to the world the Reformation of Calvin, of 
Geneva, the great Reformation, that which constitutes the strength of 
the most influential peoples, and which has extended itself to the utmost 
limits of the earth. It is the best title of France to glory ; do not let as 
forget that. No doubt it will not always disdain it, and, after having 
enriched others, she will enrich herself. It will be a great epoch for its 
future development that, when its dearest children shall plunge into the 
vivifying waters which issued forth from her bosom in the sixteenth cen- 
tury, or, rather, into that eternal source of the Word of Grod, whose 
waters ar& healing to all nations." 

Dawn of the Gospel in Geneva, 237 

The human conscience hegan to awake with Luther ; to Zwingle ap- 
pertains more particularly the work of intelligence ; Calvin accomplished 
the third work necessary for the Reformation — the renovation of the indi- 
vidual, of the human mind, and of Christianity. Truth and morality 
were essential to the enjoyment of liberty, and if Luther laid the founda- 
tions of the temple of G-od, Zwingle and others aided in raising its walls, 
and Calvin crowned the edifice. The history of the Reformation in 
France before the establishment of Calvin in Geneva presents two epochs, 
the first comprising the favourable epoch — not, however, unmixed with 
opposition and persecutions — and the second the unfavourable. Two 
individuals, of different sex, character, and position, laboured most in 
spreading the Gospel in France: one was Margaret of Angouleme, 
Duchess of Alen9on, Queen of Navarre, and sister of Francis I.; the 
other was Calvin, son of the secretary to the episcopacy of Pont 
TEv^que. When Berquin was imprisoned for preaching the Gospel in 
Artois, Margaret interfered in his favour. It was her who invited an- 
other reformer, the Count of Haute-Flamme, across the Rhine into 
France. Neither her zeal nor her exertions diminished upon the perse- 
cutions, tortures, and martyrdoms that sullied even the dawn of the 
Reformation in France. When the great question as to who should be 
the leader of the movement in France came to be decided — shall it be 
Toussaint, Lefevre, Roussel, Farel, or Berquin ? — it was Margaret who 
elected Calvin. 

The pupil of Mathurin Cordier at the college of La Marche had a long 
career of trials and tribulations to run ere he was established at Geneva. 
The first two volumes of D'Aubign^'s work do not extend to the latter 
epoch. A youthful student of philosophy at Montaign, the conversations 
of Olivetan followed upon those of Cordier to open his mind to freedom 
of thought and inquiry. It was in vain that his masters and his father 
opposed themselves to the result of that self-examination, and to the pro- 
gress and development of the spirit that was within him ; Calvin, con- 
▼inced that liberty and order could only spring from truth, declared war 
early in life witn the errors of Popery. Obliged, from these predilec- 
tions, to abandon the career of the Church, to which his father had 
destined him, Calvin went to study jurisprudence at Orleans. There he 
was admitted into what was called *4a nation picarde," and he soon 
became the " procurator," or head of his nation ; and so earnest were his 
studies, so active was his zeal, that it was even as a collegian at Orleans 
that he began to evangelise, and labour to explain the Word of God in 
the houses of his friends. This first ministry of the reformer excludes, 
D'Aubig^e remarks, the opinions generally received that Calvin was only 
converted at Orleans, or, later, at Bourges, or, even still later than that, 
at Paris. 

Bourges had become under the protection of Margaret a centre of pro- 
pagandism, and thither Calvin went to study under Wolmar, and it was 
under his guidance that he entered upon his career as an evangelist. 
Thence he was invited by Coiffart to Paris, where at first he dedicated 
himself more particularly to literary pursuits. Tumults had indeed fol- 
lowed upon the preachings of Roussel, and some of the reformers had been 
cast into prison, but their success had been considerable at the Sorbonne. 
Still Calvin never ceased to labour in the domiciles of his friends, in the 

June — TOL. cxxviii. no. dx. r 


238 Dawn of the Gospel in Geneva. 

houses of the poor, and the palaces of the nohility. Cop, the rector of 
the University of Paris, had to deliver an annual discourse ; Calvin wrote 
it for him in the sense of proclaiming the Gospel. The Sorhonne felt 
itself insulted, and the friendship of the Queen of Navarre alone protected 
the reformers from their irritation. Both Calvin and Cop were ohliged, 
however, to leave Paris. The place of Calvin was afberwaxds filled by 
Melancthon, and Francis I. himself once advocated the cause of tiie 
Beformation with the doctors of the Sorhonne. 

Events had in the mean time gone on steadily in Geneva, in the sense 
of that liberty and morality which paved the way for the Reformation, as 
much as it may also be said to spring from it. The parties of Switzerland 
and Savoy, Huguenots and Mamluks, were still confronted, and the 
prince- bishop was still there to abet the one and persecute the other. Ab 
Hofen, a disciple of Zwingle's, had been toiling assiduously in sowing the 
seeds of Reformation among the citizens. Unfortunately, an early death 
cut short his important labours. The prince-bishop, balanced between fear 
of the duke on the one side, and the apprehensions of losing his temporality 
on the other, made an attempt to win over the Swiss, but they rejected 
the discreditable alliance. He then humbled himself to being admitted 
as one of the body of citizens, and connived at the imprisonment of the 
canons of the cathedral. He substituted a lay to a clerical council, and, 
as a natural consequence, its members began immediately to question the 
prerogatives of the prince-bishop. The position of parties vras now 
changed. The citizens were divided into those who sided vnth the con- 
ciliatory prince-bishop, and those who were altogether opposed to him, 
whatever concessions he might make. Unfortunately, just at this crisis, 
the prince-bishop committed so flagrant a false step as to bring utter ruin 
upon himself and his cause. He had the excessive imprudence to have a 
young female carried away ^m her parents, as he afterwards declared, 
to be given to a musician, but, according to Michel Roset, for his own 
selfish purposes. This scandalous rape was the last act committed by the 
Roman bishops in Geneva. Peter de la Baume had no alternative left 
but to fly before the just indignation of the citizens, and he withdrew 
under favour of obscurity to Saint Claude, many of his partisans, among 
whom were Hugues, with him. 

The prince-bishop was conquered; not so the Duke of Savoy. He ones 
more attempted to subdue the recreant citizens by various means— bj 
Papal excommunication and by the force of arms. The bishop now joined 
the party of Savoy, and even Bonivard, alarmed at the progfress of the 
Reformation, withdrew from the liberals. A knighthood, called that of 
^^ La Cuiller," was also instituted for the defence of the Roman Church. 
Pontverre attempted to reduce the city by treachery, but he foiled ignobly, 
and was himself slain. Still, for a long time, Geneva presented nothing 
but a succession of disorders incident upon a state of anarchy. Even the 
Swiss cantons threatened to withdraw their alliance. The emperor also 
advocated the cause of the Pope against the unfortunate Genevese. 
Severe penalties were enacted against the Huguenots, and the prince- 
bishop placed himself at the head of a crusade. He was abetted in this 
by the knights of " La Cuiller," and by the soldiery of Savoy. The rity 
was about to be taken by assault, when once more an auxiliary force of 
fifteen thousand Swiss came up and saved the place. 

Granvilh de Vigne, 239 

a tale of the dat. 

Part the Twentt-Nihth. 



Two days after there was a fdte given at EngheiD, at the princely 
maison de plaisance 6f an English earl—- a stout, bloated old man, lavish 
as the wind, and rich as a Russian, who, consequently, had all the most 
seductive Parisiennes to make love to him; Dalilah caring very little 
who her Samson be, provided she can cut off his locks to her own 
advantage. The fi^te was of unusual magnificence, and the empress of 
it was " the Trefiisis,'* as we call her, " that poor fellow De Vigne's wife 
-^41 very fast lot, too,*' as men in g^eneral called, her—*' ma Reine," as 
the Earl of Morehampton called her, in that pleasant familiarity which 
the lady in question ever readily admitted to those good friends of hers, 
who emptied half the Palais Royal upon her in bijouterie, jewellery, 
and other innocent gifts of amity — a familiarity that always stopped 
ju$t short of Sir Cresswell's court, over the water. The Trefusis 
reigpMd at Enghein, and remarkably well she looked in her sovereignty, 
her jewelled ivory parasol handle for her sceptre, and her handsome 
eyes for her droit de conquSte. Only three nights before she had lain 
on the dank grass in the Royal Forest, where the mad agony of a man, 
whom she had goaded and taunted to the verge of the darkest and most 
hrdeous' goilt that can stain a human soul, had flung her off, bidding 
her thank God, not him, he had not murdered her in that ghastly 
temptation ; hurling her from him in delirious violence, lest in another 
moment of that fell struggle, crime should stain his life, and his grip 
should be upon her throat — her death lie at his door — her blood be 
red upon his hand ! Only three nights before ! but to-day she sat under 
the limes at Enghein, the very memory of that hour cast behind her for 
evermore, save when she remembered how she had taunted, how she 
had jeered, how she had triumphed — remembered in gloating glee, for 
her victim could not escape her snare ! The Trefusis had rarely looked 
better — ^never felt more secure in her completed vengeance upon De 
Vigne, her omnipotent sway over Morehampton, and all her lordly 
claque, than now. She was beautifully rouged, the carnation tint rich 
and soft, and defying all detection ; her black Chantilly lace swept 
around her superb form ; a parure of amethysts glittering in her bosom, 
haughtily defiant, magnificent, though coarse if you will, as she drove 
down to the villa in the Earl's carriage, and reigned under the limes in 
dominance and triumph that day, as she had reigned since the day she 
had first looked at her own face in the mirror, and sworn by that face to 
rise and to revenge. 

In brilliant style Morehampton had prepared to receive her, for he 
admired the quasi-milliner of Frestonhills more than anything else, for 



240 Granville de Vigne. 

the time being, to the extreme rage of La Baronne de Br^loques, Made- 
moiselle Celeste PapilloD of the Fran^ais, and many other fair Parisiennes. 
There was the villa itself, luxurious as Eugene Sue's ; and there were 
gprounds with alcoves, and statues, and rosieries k ravir, as Mademoiselle 
Celeste phrased it; there was a *^ pavilion des arts," where some of the 
best cantatrici in Paris sang like nightingales; there was a dejeiiner, 
with the best cookery in France — who can say more ? — there were wines 
that would have made Rahab or Father Mathew swear, with Trimalchio, 
"Vita vinum est;" there were plenty of men, lions, litterateurs, and 
milors Anglais, who were not bored here, because they could say and do 
just what they pleased, with no restraint upon them whatever. And there 
were plenty of women (very handsome ones, too, for the Earl would 
never have wasted his invitations on plain faces), who smoked, and laughed 
at gp*ivoises tales, and smiled at very prononcee flattery, and drank the 
Johannisberg and the Steinberg very freely for such dainty lips, and 
imitated us with their tranchant manners, their slang, and their lionne- 
ism in many things, except their toilettes, which were exclusively 
feminine in their brilliance and voluminous extent — among them the 
Trefusis, reigning like an empress, to the dire annoyance of most of them, 
especially to Mademoiselle Papillon, who, being a very dashing young 
actress, accustomed to look upon Morehampton as her own especial spoil, 
did not relish being eclipsed by the Englishwoman's superb person and 
bold black eyes. 

The d^je&ner was over, during which the noble Earl, as his friends in 
the Upper House termed him, when they were most politely damning 
him and his party, was exceedingly devout to the Trefusis, and thought 
he had never seen anything finer than those admirably-tinted eyes and 
beautifully-coloured cheeks. He did not care for your nymphs of 
eighteen, they were generally too shy and too thin for his taste ; he liked 
bien conserve, full blown, magnificent roses, like the ex-milliner, who 
certainly made herself more amiable to him than those who have only 
heard of her in the studio at St. Crucis and the Forest of Fontainebleau can 
well imagine. The dejeuner was over, at which the Trefusis had reigned 
with supreme contentment, laughed very loudly, and drank champagne 
enough for a young cornet just joined ; at which old Fantyre enjoyed 
the p4tes de foie g^as and other delicacies, like an old gourmette as she 
was, told dirty stories in broad Irish -French, and chuckled in herself to 
see gouty old Morehampton playing the gallant ; and at which Made- 
moiselle Papillon could have fainted with spite, but not willing to give 
the detested Englishwoman so enormous a triumph, resisted her feelings 
with noble heroism. 

The dejeuner was over, and the guests had broken up into groups, 
dispersing themselves over the villa and its grounds. The Trefusis and 
Morehampton took themselves to the " pavilion des arts;" but, afiter hear- 
ing one song from the " Traviata," " Ma Reine" was bored — she cared 
nothing for music— and she threw herself down on a seat under some 
linden-trees to take ice, listen to his private band, which was playing 
close by, and flatter him about his new barouche, which she knew would 
be ofiered her as soon as she had praised it. It was by such gifts as these 
she managed to eke out her income, and live au premier in the Champs 
Elys^es. Morehampton flung himself on the grass at her feet, forgetful 

Granville de Vigne. 241 

of gout and lumbago; other men gathered round her; she was '^ a deuced 
fine woman," they thought, but, "by George! they didn't envy De 
Vigne." The band played valses and B^ranger airs; the Earl was 
diverted between admiration of the black eyes above and rueful recollec- 
tions of the damp turf beneath him ; Mademoiselle Papillon made despe- 
rate love to Leslie Egerton, of the Queen's Bays, but never missed a 
word or a glance that went on under the lime-trees for all that, with that 
peculiar double set of optics and oral nerves with which women seem 
gifted. Very brilliant, and pleasant, and lively, and Watteau-like it all 
was ; and, standing under an alcove at some little distance, mingling un- 
noticed with the crowd of domestics, stood Raymond, alias Charles 
Trefusis, come to claim his wife, as he had been bound by De Vigne to 
do on receipt of De Vigne's reward — none the less weighty a one, you 
may be sure, because the man had been given only a promise, and not a 
bond. De Vigne's honour in those matters was in exact inverse ratio to 
the world's. 

"By Jove! sir," the fellow whispered to me — I had come with him 
to see he kept good faith, and did not give us the slip — "just look at her, 
what a dash she cuts, and what a fool she's making of that old lord ! 
That's Lord Morehampton, ain't it, sir? I think I remember him dining 
once with Lord Vane in Pall- Mall. He's a regular martyr to the gout. 
I wonder he likes that damp grass. I suppose Lucy's bewitched him. 
Isn't she a wonderful woman, sir! Who'd think, to see her now, that 
she was ever the daughter of a beggar-woman, and a little milliner- 
girl at Frestonhills, making bonnets and dresses for parsons' wives I" 

I looked at her as he spoke, and, though it seemed wonderful to him, 
it did not seem wonderful to me. Lucy Davis's rise was such a rise as 
Lucy Davis was certain to make, favoured by opportunity as she had 
been — neither more nor less of a rise than a hard-headed, unscrupulous, 
excessively handsome woman, determiued to push her way, and able to 
take the best possible advantage of every turn of the wheel, was pretty 
sure to effect. She could not make herself a gentlewoman — she could not 
make herself a woman of talent or of ton. That she was not a " lady," 
Sabretasche's sure perception had told him long, long ago, and his 
daughter's delicate taste had known still more certainly later on : .she 
was merely what she had been for the last ten years, with the aid of 
money, dress, and assurance — a dashing, handsome, skilful intrigante, 
whose magnificence of form made men forget or never notice her short- 
comings in style, and whose full-blown beauty made them content with 
the paucity of ideas and the vulgar harshness of tone in the few words 
which ever passed the Trefusis's lips, which were too wise to essay often 
tBat sure touchstone of mind and education — conversation. 

Raymond stood looking at her, a cunning, malicious gleam of satisfac- 
tion in his little light eyes. His wife had made a better thing of life than 
he had done; he detested her accordingly ; he had many old grudges to pay 
off against her for bitter, snarling words, and money flung to him, because 
she feared him, with a sneer and an invective ; he hated her for having 
lived in clover, while he had not even had a taste of luxury, save the 
luxuries of flunkeyism and valetdom, since they parted, and he enjoyed 
pulling her up in the midst of her glories with such malignant pleasure 
as was natural to his disposition. She had married him at two-and- 

242 Granville de Vigne. 

twenty; she bad made him repent of it before the honeymoon was out; 
she bad played her cards since to her own glorification and his mortifica- 
tion : there was plenty in all that to give him no little enjoyment in 
throwing her back, with a jerk, in the midst of her race. He stood look- 
ing at her with a peculiar smile on his lips. I dare say he was thinking 
what a fool be had been to fall in love with the black-eyed milliner of 
Frestonhills, and what a far greater fool still was his lordship of More- 
hampton to waste so much time and so much money, such wines, such 
jewellery, and such adoration, on this full-blown rose, whom no one ever 
tried to gather but, somewhere or other, they scratched themselves on 
her dexterously moss-hidden thorns. 

At last the Trefusis, tired of ices, cancans, and Morehampton's florid 
<;omp1iments, which I should think must have been most profoundly tire- 
some (though all flattery is welcome to some women, as all bonbons to 
<}hildren, whether of sugar or chalk, lemon-juice or citric acid), rose to 
^0 into the house and look at some rare Du Berri vases that bad belonged 
to Madame de Parabere, and for which the Earl had given a fabuloos 
price, and as foolish a one as our ancestors used to give for tulip-roots. 
The Trefusis rose, Morehampton sprung to his feet with boyish lightness 
•and gallant disregard of the gout, and then her husband stepped forward; 
and I doubt if Nemesis, though she often took a more imposing, ever 
assumed a deadlier guise than that of the ci-devant valet ! 

The Trefusis gave an irrepressible start as she saw him ; the colour left 
her lips ; her cheeks it could not leave. She began laughing and talking 
to Morehampton hurriedly, nervously, incoherently, but there was a wild, 
lurid gleam in her eye, restless and savage. Her husband touched his 
hat submissively, but with a queer smile still on his face. 

*' I beg your pardon, my lord, but may I be allowed to relieve you of 
the escort of my wife?" 

Morehampton twisted himself round, stuck his gold glass in his eye, 
and stared with all his might ; the men crowded closer, stroking their 
moustaches in curiosity and surprise ; the English women, who could 
understand the speech, suspended the spoonfuls of ice that were en route 
to their lips, and broke off their conversation for a minute ; the Trefuas 
flushed scarlet to her very brow, her eyes scintillated and glared like a 
tigress just stung by a shot that inflames all her savage nature into 
fury — ever ready with a lie, she clung to Morehampton's arm : 

'* My dear lord ! I know this poor creature very well ; he is a lunatic 
— a confirmed lunatic — a harmless one quite ; but it is one of his haUo- 
cinations that every woman he sees and admires is hb wife, who really^ 
I believe, ran away from him, and his brain was turned with the shock of 
her infidelity. He is harmless, as I say — at least I have always hea^ 
so — but pray tell your servants to take him away. It is very horrible !*' 

It was an admirably-told falsehood — told, too, with the most natural 
ease, the most natural compassion imaginable — and passed muster with 
Morehampton, who signed to two of his lacqueys. 

'^ Seize that fellow and turn him out of the grounds. How did he get 
in, Soames? Go for some gendarmes if he resist you," said the Earl, 
aloud ; then bent his head, and added (sotto voce), ^* How grieved I am, 
dearest, that you should be so absurdly annoyed. What a shockingly 
stupid fellow I Brain turned, you say — and for a wife f" 

But Raymond signed off the two footmen, who were circling gingerly 

Granville de Vigne. 243 

round him like two dogs round a hedgehog, not admiring their task, 
having a genuine horror of lunacy, and being enervated, probably, by the 
epicureanisms of plush-existence. 

" That is a pretty story, my lord, only, unfortunately, it isn't true. 
Ben travato — but all a humbug ! I am as sane as anybody here ; much 
too sane to have my brain turned because my wife ran away from me. 
Most men would thank their stars for such a kind deliverance ! I am 
come to claim mine, though, for a little business there is to be done, and 
she is on your arm now, my lord. She married me nineteen years ago, 
and made me repent of it before a month was out." 

''Dear, dear! how absurd, and yet how shocking! Pray send him 
away," whispered the Trefusis, clinging to the Earl's arm, looking, it 
must be confessed, more like a devil than a divinity, for her lips were 
"white and twitching savagely, and the spots of rouge glared scarlet. 

" Do you hear me, fellows? Turn that impudent rascal out!" swore 

"That fellow's wife! Why, she's De Vigne's wife. Everybody 
knows that!" muttered Leslie Egerton, sticking his glass in his eye. 
** Saw him married myself, poor wretch !" 

'* Mais qu'est ce que c'est done ?" asked Mademoiselle Papillon, edg- 
ing herself in with a dim delicious idea that it was something detrimental 
to her rival. 

" Kick him out 1" " Turn him out !" " An escaped lunatic !" " Im- 
pertinent rascal !" " Ma foi ! qu'a t-il done !" *' Mais comme c'est ex- 
traordinaire !" " Dieu ! qu'est ce que cela veut dire !" resounded on all 
sides from Morehampton's guests and the Trefusis's adorers. 

"Major de Vigne's wife?" repeated Raymond. "No she's not, 
gentlemen; he knows it now, too, and thanks Heaven for it. She 
married me, as I say, nineteen years ago ; more fool I to let her ! Ten 
years ago she married Major de Vigne. So you see, ray lord, she is my 
wife, not his, and I believe what she has done is given a nasty coarse 
impolite term by law. What I tell you is quite true. Here's Captain 
Chevasney, my lord, who will tell you the same, and tell it better than I. 
Come, old girl, you've had a long holiday ; you must come with me and 
work for a little while now." 

He spoke with a diabolical grin, and, thus appealed to, I went for- 
ward and gave Morehampton as succinctly as I could the outlines of 
the story. The Trefusis's face grew grey as ashes, save where the 
rouge remained in two bright crimson spots fixed and unchanged, her 
eyes glittered in tiger-like fury, in cold, hellish wrath, and her parasol 
fell to the ground ; its ivory handle snapped in two as her hands clenched 
upon it, only with a violent effort restraining herself from flying at mine 
or her husband's throat. For the first time in her life, the clever Greek 
had her own marked card turned against her ; her schemes of malice, of 
Yengeance, of ambition, were all swept away like cobwebs, never to be 
gathered up again. De Vigne was free, and she was caught in her own 

She swung round, sweeping her black Chantilly lace round her, and 
scattering her sandaUwood perfume on the air, laughing : 

" And do you believe this cock-and-bull story, Lord Morehampton ?'' 
Her voice came out in a low, fierce hiss, like a serpent's, while her large, 
sensual, ruby lips curled and quivered with impotent n^. ^ Do you 

244 Granville de Vigne. 

believe this valet's tale, bribed by a man who would move heaven and 
earth to prove his lawful marriage false, and the corroborating story toM 
80 glibly by a gentleman who, though he calls himself a man of honour, 
would swear black were white to pleasure his friend ?" 

" Come, come there, my lady !" laughed Raymond. " Wait a bit. 
Don't call us bad names. You can't ride the high horse any more like 
that, and if you don't take care what you say we'll have you up for libel ; 
we will, I assure you. Come, you used to be wide-awake once, and if 
you don't keep a civil tongue in your head it may be the worse for you." 

'' Lord Morehampton, will you endure this ? I must appeal," began 
the Trefusis, turning again to that noble earl, who, with his double eye- 
glass in his eye, and his under lip dropped in extreme astonishment, was 
too much amazed, and too much annoyed, at such an unseemly and un- 
timely interruption to his morning fete to take any part in the proceed- 
ings whatever. He was a little shy of her, indeed, and kept edging back 
slowly and surely. . She was trembling now from head to foot with rage 
at her defeat, terror for the consequences of the esclandre, mad wrath and 
hatred that her victim had slipped from her fetters, and that De Vigne 
was free. 

Her husband interrupted her with a coarse laugh, before she could 

" You appeal to your cavalier servente, madame ? Oh ! if my Lord 
Morehampton likes to keep you, I have no objection ; it will take a good 
deal of trouble off my hands, and I only wish him joy of his bargain. 
And next time, Lucy, make sure your chickens are hatched before yon 
count them !" 

At so summary a proposition from a husband, the earl involuntarily 
drew back, blank dismay visible on his purple and supine features. The 
offer alarmed him ! The Trefusis was a deuced handsome woman, but 
she was a deuced expensive one too, thought he, and he hardly desired to 
be saddled with her pour toujours. Added to his other expenses, for a 
permanence, she would go very near to ruin him, not to mention tears, 
reproaches, and scenes from many other quarters ; and '^ she is a very 
vixen of a temper I" reflected the earl, wisely, as he edged a little farther 
back, and left her standing alone — who is not jalone in defeat ? 

The Trefusis looked round on everybody as they hung back &om her, 
leaving a clear space about her, with a searphing, defiant glance, her 
fierce black eyes seeming to smite and wither all they lit on ; great 
savage lines gathered round her mouth and down her brow, that was 
dark with mortification and impotent chained-up fury. She glanced 
around, her lips twitching like a snared animal's, her face ashy grey, 
save where the crimson rouge burned in two oval patches, flaring there 
like streaks of flame, in hideous contrast to the deathly pallor of the rest 
She was defeated, outdone, humiliated ; the frauds and schemes of twenty 
years fruitless and unavailing in the end ; her victim free, her enemies 
triumphant! She glared upon us all till the boldest women shrank 
away terrifled, and the men shuddered as they thought what a fiend in- 
carnate this their '* belle femme" was ! Then she gathered her rich iaoe 
around her. To do her justice, she was game to the last ! 

" Order my carriage !" 

She was beaten, but she would not show it ; and to her carriage she 
swept, her massive Chantilly gathered round her, her silks rustling, bsr 

Granville de Vigne. 245 

perfume scenting the air, her demie traine brushing the lime-blossoms 
off the lawn, her step stately and measured, her head defiantly erect, 
leaving on the gp'ass behind her the fragile ivory handle, symbol of her 
foiled vengeance and her impotent wrath — her dethroned sovereignty. 
There was a moment's silence as she swept across the lawn, her tall 
chasseur, in his dashing green and gold uniform, walking before her, her 
two footmen with their long white wands behind, and at her side, dogging 
her footsteps, with his sneer of retribution and his smile of vengeance, the 
valet who had claimed her as his wife. There was a moment's silence; 
then the tongues were loosened, and her friends, and her rivals, and her 
adorers spake. 

"Gad!" quoth my Lord of Morehampton, "she looked quite ugly, 
'pon my soul she did, with those great rouge spots on her cheeks. Curse 
it ! how deuced shocking !" 

"Mon Dieu, milor," sneered Mademoiselle Fapillon, "je vous felicite 
sur votre nouvelle amie, peut-etre vous voudriez avoir le plaiser de prendre 
la r61e du troisieme mari !" 

" Better go and be Queen of the Greeks — deuced sharp woman !" said 
Lee Philipps. 

** Always said that creature was the very devil. Plucky enough, 
though!" remarked Leslie Egerton, with his cigarette in his teeth. 
What a jolly thing for De Vigne ! Prime, ain't it ?" 

The biter bit !" chuckled old Fantyre. " Well, she was very useful 
to me, but she was always a devil, as you say, Leslie ; horrid temper ! 
She should have managed her game better. I've no patience with people 
who don't make sure of their cards. Dear dear ! who'll read me to sleep 
of a night ?" 

And the others all crowded round me, dirty old Fantyre peering closest 
of all, with her little bright, cunning, inquisitive eyes. 

"Come, tell us, Chevasney, is it true?" 

" I say, old fellow, what's the row ?" 

So the world talks of us, either in our sorrows or our sins ! They 
were full of curiosity, annoyance, amusement — as it happened to affect 
them individually ; none of them stopped to regret the great lie, to 
remember the great wrong, to grieve for the debased human nature, 
and the bitter satire on the Holy Bond of Marriage, that stood out in 
such black letters in the new story which I added to their repertoire of 
8cand41es. Cancans amuse us ; we never stop to recollect the guilt, the 
sorrow, or the lie that must give them their foundation-stone, their 
colouring, and their flavour. Mademoiselle Papillon was. nearest of all 
to the moral of the story, when she shrugged her little plump shoulders : 

"Mon Dieu! Qui voudrait se marier! Dans celle loterie bizarre 
qui peut esp^rer d'eviter la chicane ? En amour on est un ange — en 

manage un d^mon. Nul homme sage ne I'essayerait !" 

* m * m * 

The summer sunshine that lit up the sparkling wines, and glittering 
toilettes, and gorgeous liveries of the fete at Enghein, shining on the 
Trefiisis's parure of amethysts and on the rich scarlet rouge of her cheeks 
—that flag of defiance that flaunted there in defeat as in victory!— 
shone at the same hour through the dark luxuriant foliage of the chesnuts 
at St. Crucis, on the lilac-boughs heavy with massed blossom, on the 
half-openeoF rosebuds clinging round the woodwork of the old brown 


246 Granville de Vigne. 

walls, and on the swallow's nest nestled under the thatch of the eaves. 
A warm amber light, the light of the coming summer, lay on the earth, 
and in it the gnats were whirling at their play, and the early butterflies 
fluttering their saffron wings. The afternoon was perfectly stUl, no sound 
breaking in upon its silence except now and then the song of a bird in 
the branches, the lazy drone of a bee among the lilacs, or the distant 
chime of a church clock afar off ringing the quarters slowly and sofblj in 
the summer air. And out on the dark oaken sill of the window, drooping 
her head upon her hands, while the light flickered down upon her hair 
through the network of the leaves, leant a woman, heedless, in the depth 
of her own thought, of the play of the south wind or the songs of the 
birds, as both made music about her among the chesnut-blossoms and the 
lilac-leaves without. Alma had been but a few hours in England, and 
had come at once to her old home, endeared to her by a thousand asso- 
ciations. She was alone, nothing near her save the bee droning in the 
cup of the early rose, or the yellow butterfly that settled on her hair un- 
noticed. Her head was bent, resting on her hand ; her face was veiy 
pale, save when now and then a deep warm flush passed over it, suddenly 
to fade again as quickly ; her eyes were dark and dreamy, with a yearn- 
ing tenderness; and on her lips was a smile, mouniful yet proud, as, half 
unconsciously, they uttered the words of her thoughts aloud : " I will 
not leave thee, no, nor yet forsake thee. Where thou goest I will go; 
thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God !" 

They were the words of an oath — an oath to whose keeping she would 
dedicate her life, even though, to so keep it, that life would be in the world's 
eyes condemned and sacrificed. She leant there, against the dark wood- 
work, alone, the silence unbroken that reigned about her, save when the 
wind swept through the fragrant branches above, or the rush of a bird's 
delicate wings cleft the air. Suddenly — in the stillness, while yet it was 
so distant that no other ear could have heard it — she caught a footfall 
while its sound was so faint that it did not break the silence, as the 
spaniel catches the step of his master while yet afar off ; she lifted her 
head with the wild, eager grace that was natural to her as is its freedom 
to a flower, her eyes growing dark and humid in their expectancy and 
their great joy, her colour changing swiftly with the force of a joy so 
keen that it trenched on anguish, with the hot vivid flush of a love strong 
as the life in which it is embedded and entwined. Then, with a low, 
glad cry, she sprang, swift as an antelope, to meet him, and to cling to 
him as she would have clung to him through evil and adversity, through 
the scorch of shame and the throes of death, through the taunts of the 
world and the ghastly terrors of the grave. 

For Doany moments De Vigne could find no words even to tell her that 
which she never dreamed of, that which panted on his lips ; he held her 
in his arms, crushing her in one long, close embrace, meeting as those 
meet who would not spend one hour of their lives asunder. For many 
moments he bent over her, speechless, breathless, straining her madly to 
him, spending on her lips the passion that found no fitting utterance in 
words ; then, stifled and hoarse in its very agony of joy, his voice broke 

"You will be my wife — this day — this hour I Alma! — thank Ood 

with ma — I am free !" 

/ * * « * * 

Granville de Vtffne, 247 

The day stole onward : faintly from the far distance swung the silvery 
sound of evening bells ; the low south winds stirred amongst the lilac- 
blossoms, shaking their rich fragrance out upon the air ; the bees hummed 
themselves to slumber in the hearts of folded roses ; the mellow amber 
light grew deeper and clearer, while the first stars were coming out in the 
west, the day was passing onward, ere long to fade into twilight, ere long 
to sink into night. And as the rays of the western sun swept through 
the parted network of the leaves, and fell about his feet, shining in the 
eyes of the woman he loved, and bathing her hair in light where it swept 
across his breast, De Vigne bowed his head in thanksgiving too deep 
for words ; not alone for the passionate joy in which his life was steeped 
not alone for his freedom from that deadly curse that had been on him 
for so long — fruits of an early marriage — but for that hour, past yet still 
so near ; so near that still he sickened at it, as men at the memory of 
some horrible death they have but by a hair's-breadth escaped. That 
hour when, for the first time in all his wayward, headlong, vehement man- 
hood, he had resisted and flung off from him the temptation that, yielded 
to but for one brief fleeting instant, would, though never tracked or known 
by man, have made him taste fire in every kiss of the lips he loved, quail 
before the light of the fairest day that dawned, and start in the sweat of 
agony, and wake in the terror of remembered guilt from his sweetest rest, 
bis most delicious sleep ; — that hour in the forest solitude, when, goaded, 
taunted, reviled, maddened, he had been face to face with what he 
loathed, parted by her from what he loved, he had had strength to fling 
her from him, .untouched, unharmed, unchastised — that hour which had 
been the crowning temptation of Granville De Vigne's life. He had had 
strength to cast it behind him with a firm hand, and had had strength 
to flee from it— Jearing himself, as the wisest and holiest amongst us 
need do in those dark hours that come to all when there is but a plank 
between us and the fathomless abyss of some great guilt. 

And while the starlit night of the early summer stole onwards towards 
the earth, De Vigne bowed his head over the woman who had cleaved 
to him through all, and would so have cleaved howsoever his life had 
turned, whose arms were close about him, and whose warm lips were on 
his; and while a deep and delicious joy steeped his present and his future 
in its own golden and voluptuous delight, he looked backward for one 
instant to his Fast, and thanked God. 



The history is told ! It is one simple enough and common enough in 
this world, and merely traces out the evil that accrued to two men in the 
same station of life and in similar circumstances, although of widely dif- 
ferent temperaments, from an error of judgment — the most fatal error 
that man can make — an Early Marriage. Both my friends took advan- 
tage of this liberty, you see, to tie themselves again ! I don^t say in 
that respect, '^ Go thou and do likewise," ami lecteur, if you be similarly 
ntuatedy but rather, if you are free — keep so ! A wise man, th^y say, 
knows when he is well off ! 

248 Granville de Vignc. 

In the Times the other day, I read among' the deaths, ^* At Paris, in 
her ninety-seventh year, Sarah, Viscountess Fantyre." Gone at last, poor 
old woman, under the sod, where shrewdness and trickery and rouge and 
trump cards are of no avail to her, though she held by them to the last. 
She died as she had lived, I hear, sitting at her whist-table, be-wigged 
and be-rouged, gathering her dirty, costly lace about her, quoting George 
Selwyn, dealing herself two honours and six trumps, picking up the 
guineas with a cunning twinkle of her monkeyish eyes, when Dea& 
tapped her on the brain, and old Fantyre was carried on the scene in an 
apoplectic fit ; while her partner, the Comte de Beaujeu, murmured over 
his tabatiere, '' Feste ! Death is homdly ill bred ; he should have letns 
played the conqueror !'* 

What memoirs the old woman might have left us— dirty ones, sans 
doute, but what memoirs of intrigues, plots, scandals, schemes — what rich 
glimpses behind the cards, what amusing peeps beneath the purple I A 
g^eat many people, though, are glad, I dare say, that the Fantyre ex- 
periences are not down in black and white, and no publisher, perhaps, 
would have been courageous enough to risk their issue. They would 
have blackened plenty of fair reputations had their gunpowder burst; 
they would have offended a world which loves to prate of its moraifl, 
cackle of its purity, and double-lock its chamber-doors ; they would have 
given us keys to many skeleton cupboards, which we should have opened 
to turn away from more heart-sick than before ! 

Her prot^g^e, the Trefusis, has in no wise gone off the scene, nor did 
she consent to drop down into a valet's wife. Her expos^e at Morehamp- 
ton's villa had been the most bitter thing life could have brought her, for 
she had read enough of Rochefoucauld to think with him, <' le ridieole 
d^shonore plus que le d^shonneur." She sought the friendly shadow of 
Notre-Dame de Lorette. Fearing her husband no longer, she bribed him 
no more ; and if you like to see her any day, walk down the Rue Br^da, 
or look out in the Pre Catalan for a carriage with lapis- lazuli liveries; 
dashing as the Montespan's, and you will have painted to you in a 
moment the full-blown magnificence (now certainly coarse, and I due 
say only got up at infinite trouble from Blanc de Perle and Bulli's best 
rouge) of the quasi-milliner of Frestonhills. She has at present, en proie, 
a Russian prince, and thrives, k ravir, upon roubles. Her imperial 
sables are the envy of the Quartier; and as women who range under the 
Piratical Flag don't trouble their heads with a Future, the Trefusis does 
not stop to think that she may end in le Maison Dieu, with a bowl of 
soupe maigre, when her beauty shall utterly have lost all that superb and 
sensual bloom that lured De Vigne in his hot youth to such deadly cost 

*' A young man married is a man that's marred." 

The stag with the grip of the stag-hound ever at his throat; the 
antelope with the fangs of the tigress ever tearing his reeking flanks ; the 
racer yoked in the heavy galling shafts that he must drag behind him 
over stony roads till he faints and dies, still with his burden harnessed on 
him ; these unions were not worse than many of those marriages that 
are the bitter fruit of no sin, no fault, no error, but merely of a mistake I 
^those marriages that are a bondage more cruel, more eternal, more 
unpitied than the captivity of Israel in Egypt ! 

'* A young man married is a man that's marred." One wrote that 

Granville de Vigne. 249 

who was more deeply skilled in the intricacies of the human heart, who 
saw more profoundly into the manifold varieties, the wayward and con- 
flicting instincts of human life, than any by whom the world has since 
let itself be led and moulded. " Marred ?" How can the man fail to 
be so who chooses his yoke-fellow for life in all the blind haste, the crude 
taste of his earlier years, when taste in all things alters so utterly from 
youth to manhood? In what the youth of five-and-twenty thinks so wise, 
fair, excellent, half a score or a score years later on he sees but little 
beauty. In study, sport, literature, his preference changes much in the 
interval that parts his early from his matured years ; I have heard young 
fellows in their college terms utterly recant in June all they swore by 
religiously in January, equally earnest and sincere, moreover, in their re- 
cantation and their adoration ! Taste, bias, opinion, judgment, all alter 
as their judgment widens, their taste ripens, and their sight grows keener 
from longer mixing amidst the world, and longer studying its varied 
views. God help, then, the man who has taken to his heart and into his 
life a wife who, fair in his eyes in all the glamour of love, all the '* pur- 
pureal light of youth," is as insufficient to him in his maturer years as are 
the weaker thoughts, the cruder studies, the unformed judgment, the 
boyish revelries of his youth. The thoughts might be well in their way, 
the studies beneficial, the judgment generous and just, the revels harm- 
less, but he has outgrown them — gone beyond them — left them far behind 
him ; and he can no more return to them and find them sufficient for him 
than he can return to the Gradus ad Parnassum of his first school-days. 
So the wife, too, may be good in her way : he may strive to be faithful to 
her and to cleave to her as he has sworn to do ; he may seek with all hia 
might to come to her side, to bring back the old feeling, to join the 
broken chain, to find her all he needs and all he used to think her ; he 
may strive with all his might to do this, but it is Sysiphus-Iabour ; she 
does not satisfy his manhood, the scales have fallen from his eyes, he 
loves her no longer! It is not his fault; she belongs to the things of 
his youth that pleased a crude taste, an immature judgment ; he sees 
her now cts she is, and she is far below him, far behind him ; if he pro- 
gress he must go on alone, if he fall back to her level his mind dete- 
riorates with every day that dawns ! Would he bring to the Commons 
no arguments riper than the crude debates that were his glory at the 
Union; would he condemn himself in science never to discard the 
unsound theories that were the delight of his early speculations ; would 
he deny himself the right to fling aside the moonshine philosophies, the 
cobweb metaphysics that he wove in his youth, and forbid himself title 
to advance beyond them? Surely not ! Yet he would chain himself 
through his lifelong to a yoke-fellow as unfit and insufficient to his older 
years as ever the theories and thoughts of his youth can be ; as fatal to 
his peace while he is bound to her, as they, could he be bound to them, 
would be fatal to the mind they dwarfed, to the brain they crammed into 
a prison-cell ! 

In youth Rosaline seems very fair, 
iNone else being bv. 

Herself poised with herself in either eye. 

A young man meets a young girl in society, or at the sea-side, or on 
the deck of a Rhine steamer ; she has nice msh colouring, bright blue 

250 Granmlk de Viffne. 

ey«f, or black ones, as the case may be, Tery nice ankks, and a charmiiif 
Yoice. She is a pretty girl to everybody ; to him, thrown across her by 
chance, she is beautifal— divine ! He thinks, over his pipe, that she is 
just his ideal of (Enone, or Gretchen, or airy fairy Lilian, if he be of a 
poetic turn, and rank with Grerman idealism; or meditates that she's **a 
dipper of a 'girl, and, by Jupiter ! what lovely scarlet lips, and what a 
pretty foot !*' if of a material disposition. He falls in love with her, as 
the phrase goes ; he flirts with her at water- parties, and pays her a fsw 
morning calls ; he sees her trifling with a bit of fancy-work, and heais 
her pretty voice say a few things about the weather. A few oeoillades, a 
few waltzes, a few t^tes-^t^tes; when looking at the rosebud lips hs 
never criticises what they utter, and he proposes — he is accepted; they are 
both dreadfull}* in love, of course, and — ^raarry. It is a pretty dream for 
a few months; an easy yoke, perhaps, for a few years; then gradually the 
illusions drop one by one, as the leaves drop from a shaken rose, loth, yet 
forced to fall. He finds her mind narrowed, bigoted, ill-stored, with no 
single thought in it akin to his own. What could he learn of it in thoss 
fow morning calls, those few ball-room t6tes-a-tStes, when the glamoor 
was on him, and he would have cared nothing though she could not hafe 
spelled his name? Or — he finds her a bad temper (when does temper 
ever show in society, and how could he see her without society's con* 
trolling eye upon her p), snarling at her servants, her dogs, the soup, tin 
east winds; meeting him with petulant acerbity, revenging on him her 
milliner's neglect, her maid's stupidity, her migraine, or her torn MechKa. 
Or — he finds her a heartless coquette, cheapening his honour, holding fail 
name as carelessly as a child holds a mirror, forgetting, like the child, 
that a breath on it is a stain ; turning a deaf ear to his remonstrance; 
flinging at him, with a sneer, some died-out folly — *^ before JTknew you, 
sir !" — that she has ferreted out ; goading him to words that he knowi^ 
for his own dignity, were best unsaid, then turning to hysteria and ss 
posent en martyre. Or — and this, I take it, is the worst case for both—* 
the wife is a good wife, as many (ladies say most) vrives are; he knows 
it, he feels it, he honours her for it, but — she is a bitter disappointment 
to him. He comes home worn-out with the day's labour, but soccessM 
from it ; he sits down to a t6te-^t6te dinner ; he tells her of the hstd* 
won election, the hot-worded debate in the House, the issue of a great 
law case that he has brought off victorious, of his conquest over dealb 
by the bedside of a sinking patient, of the compliment to his corps from 
the commander-in-chief, of the one thing that is the essence of his lift 
and the end of his ambition; she listens with a vague, amiable, absent 
smile, but her heart is not with him, nor her ear. " Yes, dear— indeed— 
how very nice ! But cook has ruined that splendid haunch. Do look! 
it is really burnt to a cinder !" She never gives him any more than 
that! She cannot help it; she is a good, patient, domestic, quiet 
woman, who would not do wrong for the world, but her sphere is the 
nursery, her thoughts centre on the misdemeanours of her household, her 
mission is emphatically to " suckle fools and chronicle small-beer." The 
perpetual drop, drop, of her small worries, her puerile pleasures, is like 
the ceaseless dropping of water on his brain ; try how he might, 
he could never waken this woman's mind to one pulse in unison with 
his in the closest relationship of human life; she is less capable of 

Granvilk de Vigne, 251 

understanding him in his defeats, his Tictories^ his struggles, than the 
seoselesa writing-paper, which, though it cannot respond to them, at 
least lets him score his thoughts on its blank pages, and will bear them 
uoobliterated ! Yet this disunion in union is common enough in this 
world : when a man marries early it is too generally certain. 

A man eariy married, moreover, is prematurely aged. While he is 
yet young his wife is old ; while he is in the fullest vigour of his man- 
hood, she is grey, and faded, and ageing ; youth has long gone from her, 
while in him it is still fresh ; and while away from her he is young, by her 
side he feels old. Married — in youth he takes upon himself burdens that 
should never weigh save upon middle age ; in middle age he plays the 
put that should be reserved for age alone. I read the other day in an 
essay a remark of the writer's relative to the marriage of Milverton, in 
the last series of Friends in Council, with a girl of twenty-two, in which 
he said that he could well conceive what a delight it mignt be to a man 
at or past middle age, who had believed his youth lost for ever, to have 
it restored to him in a love which gives him the rich and subtle glad- 
ness that brings back the '* greenness to the grass, and the glory to the 
flower." It is true; and it is this later love which can satisfy him and 
not fade and disappoint him ; since it is in later years alone that his own 
character will have become no longer mutable, his own tastes have ripened, 
and his own judgment grown secure. Yet to the man who has married 
early this resurrection of his youth can never come, or, if it come, can only 
come in bitterness, like the bitterness of the prisoner who catches one 
glimpse of the fair laughing earth lying beyond in the sunlight, and 
knows that the bars of his cell are fixed, and that on his limbs are the 
weight of irons. 

And, to take it in a more practical sense, scarcely the less inevitably from 
every point is '* a young man married a man that's marred." If to men 
of fortune, like Sabretasche and De Vigne, with every opiate of pleasure 
and excitement to drown the gall and fret of uncongenial or unhappy 
union, early marriage blots and mars life as it does, how much more bitter 
still to those who are poor and struggling men, with the burden of work, 
hardly done and scantily paid, upon their shoulders, is its fatal error! A 
young man starts in life with no capital, but a good education and a pro* 
fession, that, like all professions, cannot be lucrative to him tUl time has 
mellowed his reputation, and experience made him, more or less, a name 
in it. It bring^s him quite enough for his gargon wants ; he lives com- 
fortably enough in his chambers or his lodgings, with no weightier daily 
outlay than his Cavendish and his chop ; study comes easy to him, with 
a brain that has no care gnawing on it; society is cheap, for his chums 
come contentedly for a pipe, and some punch, or some beer, and think 
none the worse of him because he does not give them turtle and Vin 
Mosseux. He can live for little if he like; if he want change and travel, 
he can take his knapsack and a walking tour ; nobody is dependent on 
him ; if he be straitened by poverty, the strain is on him alone ; he is not 
tortured by the cry of those who look to him for daily bread, the world 
is before him, to choose at least where he will work in it ; in a word, he 
is free ! But, if he marries, his up-hill career is fettered by a clog that 
draws him backward every step he sets ; his profession is inadequate to 
meet the expenses that crowd in on him; if he keep manfully and 

252 Granville de Vigne. 

honestly out of debt, ecoDomy and privation eat his very life away, as, 
say what romancists may, they ever must ; if he live beyond his income, 
as too many professional men are almost driven to do in our day, there 
is a pressure on him like the weights they laid upon offenders in the old 
Newgate press-yards. He toils, he struggles, he works, as bnua- 
workers must, feverishly and at express speed to keep in the van at all ; 
he is old, while by right of years he should yet be young, in the con- 
stant harassing rack and strain to *' keep up appearances," and seem 
well off while every shilling is of consequence ; he writes for his bread 
with the bray of brawling children above his head ; he g^s to his office 
turning over and over in wretched arithmetic the sums he owes to the 
baker and the butcher ; he smiles courteously upon his patients or his 
clients with the iron in his soul and county-court summonses hanging 
over his head. He goes back from his rounds or his office, or comes out 
of his study after a long day, jaded, fagged, worn out; comes, not to 
quiet, to peace, to solitude, with an Havaunah and a book, to anything 
that would soothe the fagged nerves and ease the strain for an hour at 
least, but only for some miserable petty worry, some fresh small care; to 
hear his wife going into mortal agonies because her youngest son has the 
measles, or bear the leer of the servants when they say '^ the tax-gatherei^s 
called again, and, please, must he go away ?" 

Corregio literally dying in the heat and burden of the day, of ihe 
weary weight, the torturing rack of home-cares, his family and his 
poverty dragging him downward and clogging his genius as the drench- 
ing rains upon its wings clog the flight of a bird, is but sample of the 
death-in-life, the age-in-youth, the self-begotten curse, the self-elected 
doom, that almost inevitably dog the steps of a man who has married 
early, be his station what it may, be his choice what it will. 

This Spring of Love resembleth 
The uncertain glory of an April day, 
Which shows now all the beauty of the sun. 
And by-and-by a cloud takes all away ! 

Such is love, rarely anything better, scarcely ever anything more 
durable. Such are all early loves, invariably, inevitably. God hel^ 
then, though we may count them by the myriad, those who in and for 
that one brief '^ April day," which, warm and shadowless at morning;, 
sees the frost down long before night, pay rashly as Esau paid in the 
moment of eager delight, when no price was counted, and no value asked; 
pay, with headstrong thoughtlessness, in madman's haste, the one price- 
less birthright upon earth — Freedom ! 

'^ A young man married is a man that's marred !" 



The era of Louis XIV. and of Louis XV. was that of minorities; the 
system extended itself to the very foot of the social ladder, and to the 
royal minorities succeeded that of the royal executioners. Charles 
Sanson was dead, and his widow, the most remarkable woman of the 
family — Martha Dubut — obtained the father's appointment for his eldest 
son, Charles Jean Baptiste Sanson, at that time only seven years of age. 
Jean Baptiste, worthy son of an indomitable mother, took to his profession, 
when age had rendered him competent to its duties, as a matter of course. 
He was equally free from the feverish excitement of his grandfather and 
the gloomy melancholy of his father. So great was the influence of 
Martha Dubut, " the mother of the Gracchi of the scaffold," that she also 
obtained the appointment of provost of the king's hotel for her second 
son, Gabriel, but the execution of Damiens so sickened this youth with 
the duties that he at once gave up his charge. 

Jean Baptiste, of a less sensitive nature, on the contrary, took a pride 
in his profession, and thoroughly identified himself with the sanguinary 
appanage, which he looked upon as hereditary. Unluckily, he was not 
of a literary turn — possibly the two avocations do not tally, for Henry 
Sanson manifestly had his business in horror — and he has left few notices 
of the terrible dramas in which he was engaged. The fact is, that these 
appear, from the brevity of such as do exist, to have made no deep im- 
pression upon his cynical disposition. Among the most remarkable were 
one Ruxton, broken on the wheel for having assassinated Andrieu, a 
barrister-at-law ; and Montgeol, a civil engineer, who had murdered 
Lescombat, an architect, prompted thereunto by Marie Taperet, the wife 
of the latter. The indifference and egotism of this corrupt woman at his 
trial so irritated her quondam lover, that he was induced to tax her openly 
with having instigated him to commit the crime. Marie Taperet, young 
and beautiful, and whose coquetry equalled her viciousness, reckoned 
upon her charms and dress to fascinate the magistrates and win them 
over in her favour, but in this she was disappointed ; she was condemned 
to be hung, and only obtained delay by declaring herself enceinte by the 
unfortunate man whom she had sent to the scaffold. Marie Taperet's 
history bears some resemblance to that of Madame Ticquet ; like it, it 
has been made the groundwork of both novels and dramas, but it has no 
redeeming points like the ill-assorted marriage, and ardent and passionate, 
albeit criminal, love of Madame Ticquet. Among the other more or less 

* M^molres des Sansons, etc. Tome Troisi^me. Paris: Dupray de la 

July — ^YOL. cxxvni. no. dxi. s 



254 Revelations of the Guillotine. 

distinguished personages who fell into the hands of Jean Baptiste was a 
magistrate of the name of Dufrancey, who was nearly sacrificing the life 
of one Roy, a merchant/ hy{false testimony. A slight incident at the 
trial betrayed the plot. 

Roy, overwhelmed by the horrible charges brought agsdnsft him by one 
of the witnesses, exclaimed : 

'^ Miserable man, what have I done to you that you should have me 
broken on the wheel ? I do not know you, or have you ever seen me !" 

*' How !" exclaimed the witness, " broken on the wheel ? I did not 
mean it to go as far as that." 

These words were a beam of light. A new turn was given to the exa- 
mination, and the whole plot was discovered. 

Jean Baptiste was struck down by palsy in January, 1754. We ha?e 
seen how he attempted to re- vindicate his rights in the instance of Lally 
ToUendal ; in fact, he may be almost said to have loved his profession. 
Another proof of this lies in the fact that out of ten children, he got all 
that were boys — seven in number — appointments as executioners at 
Reims, Orleans, Meaux, Etampes, Soissons, Montpellier, and elsewhere. 
When these members of a family of decapitators were assembled at the 
patriarchal board, the aged Martha Dubut at the head, her son paralysed 
and statue-like at the side, and the mother at the foot, they were 
designated as Monsieur de Reims, Monsieur de Soissons, &c.— *a custom 
which is still upheld in the profession. 

The eldest, Charles Henry Sanson, was by birthright Monsieur de 
Paris, and he was a handsome and even gentlemanly person. Being 
obliged by law to wear a green coat, he actually brought the colour into 
fashion, and he even attempted to raise the question, as a descendant of 
the De Lougvals, if the office of executioner derogated from his rights 
of nobility ! His handsome person and love of dress entailed many ad- 
ventures, some of which, as his acquaintance with Jeanne Vaubemier, 
afterwards Countess of Barry, had no untoward results, which was not 
always the case with others. Being out hunting one day, a lady of title 
inquiring as to who he was, and receiving for answer that he was a 
" parliamentary officer," she invited him to her house. But discoveiiog 
afterwards the real profession of our gay Lothario, she was so profoundly 
irritated that she commenced an action against him, insisting that he 
should ask pardon publicly with a rope round his neck, and further, that 
he should be obliged to wear a distinctive badge. Charles Henry defended 
himself so effectually, however (the very speeches made on botn sides are 
placed on record in this strange history), that nothing came of this per- 
secution of an indignant lady. 

The acquaintanceship with Jeanne Vaubernier, afterwards Countess of 
Barry, is said to have originated in the attendance at the house of Jean 
Baptiste of the Abb6 Gomart, chaplain to the condemned, and who may 
be supposed to have frequented the society of the Sansona from theff 
duties bringing them so closely and so intimately together. The disputed 
paternity of Jeanne Vaubemier is attributed by the Sansons to a youth- 
ful error on the part of the abb^, who seems in other respects to have been 
a pious man, and an able and conscientious minister of religion. It was 
from hearing the worthy abbe talk of the beauty and the frailty of his 
niece, as he called her, and the latter of which, while he extolled the 

Revelations of the Gmllotine. 255 

charms oF the girl, he never ceased to deplore at the tahle of the Sansons, 
that first induced the ardent young Charles Henry to seek her, with the 
view primarily, we are told, of bringing her back to a sense of rectitude. 
Whereupon Jeanne most justly retorted : 

" Quel nigaud que ce gar9on la !*' 

Henry Sanson passes lightly and delicately over these pages in the 
history of his grandfather, which others have availed themselves of to 
present in a very different light ; the one party as a hideous and repul- 
sive relationship with a common executioner, the other as a mysterious 
and fatal connexion replete with strange prophecies of the future. Read 
in any light, it remains not the less a strange incident that one of the 
favourites of this frail but beautiful and fascinating creature, should have 
been the very man who, in after years, was called upon to carty out the 
last penalty of the law — or rather of public reprobation — upon her own 

Charles Henry Sanson became, indeed, in the words of his biographer, 
the minister of popular reprisals, tl>e incarnation of the thoughts of 
Marat and Robespierre, and the liquidation of the revenge accumulated 
for ages against the abuses of the monarchy, and he seemed at that 
exceptional epoch to have become the alpha and omega of politics. It 
is, indeed, impossible to find in any other country, or under any other 
legislation of the past, a more perfect or a more exagg^ated personifi- 
cation of the public executioner. Royalty, the "Gironde," and the 
** Mountain,'* each in its turn passed under his hands ; each successive 
crisis ended at the same point — the scaffold; as if the fatal triangle of iron 
moved by his homicidal hands-^-an invention that seemed as if it had 
sprung forth from the necessities and inspiration of the time — was the 
only possible solution to all the various social and political questions that 
were discussed with so much violence in those days. 

The latter portion of the reign of Louis XV. had been sparing in 
blood. The condemned were simply malefactors of the most common 
and vulgar class, such as always present themselves amidst a vast and 
more or less disorganised population. Henry Sanson remarks, however, 
upon more than one occasion, that it was strange to say the parliament, 
whom these miserable victims appealed to for mercy, that invariably aggra- 
vated their sentence of death into that of being broken upon the wheel. 
Happily, we have now come to the time when the last of such execrably 
barbarous scenes was attempted to be enacted, and that, too, at Ver- 
sailles, the very seat and stronghold of royalty. 

" Our modem laws," writes Henry Sanson, " attaching more import- 
ance to human dignity, have abolished corporeal punishments. The 
pillory and the brand have disappeared one after the other ; I have seen 
them both erased from my fatal duties. The act of mutilation that pre- 
ceded the execution of parricides has fallen into disuse, as a refinement ol 
einelty unworthy of a civilised society. The cremation of bodies and 
the dispersion of l^ir ashes to the winds, would only be looked upon in 
the present day as an odious phantasmagoria calculated to hurt public 
faeiing and to degrade justice. The scaffold and the privation of life in 
the name of the law alone remain ; and an internal voice proclaims to 
the old descendant of a long generation of executioners, that these last 
fetiches of barbarity will not fail to be carried away by the breath of 


256 Revelations ofihe Guillotine. 

progress, and that legislation, reireshed at the eternal sources of religion, 
will at length recognise the inviolability of human life, the work of God, 
who alone has the right to destroy it.'' 

The events of a period marked by an effusion of blood greater than is 
known to the annals of any other epoch, or any other race of people, 
were preceded by an incident of a more personal character, and which 
displays an amount of cynicism that is so peculiarly national, and was 
so characteristic of the times that it is impossible to pass it over in 

Desrues, a grocer's apprentice in Chartres, born in 1744, came to 
Paris to seek his fortune, like many others, and was received in the shop 
of the sister-in-law of his quondam master. A frail, impotent creature, 
of, according to Cailleau, even an indistinct sex, this otherwise repulsive 
youth managed by his assiduities, civilities, and assumed piety, so far to 
ingratiate himself in the favour of his mistress, as to be admitted in 
1770 — that is to say, at about twenty-six years of age — as a partner in 
the business. Two years after this he married Marie Nicolais, daughter 
of a sub-officer of artillery, whose mother had since united herself to a 
cobbler ; Marie Nicolais was neither comely nor wealthy, nor even gifted 
with much intelligence, but she had an inheritance in prospective. This 
inheritance was a kind of feudal half-ruinous keep, with an estate at- 
tached, at Caudeville, near Auxerre, and at that time held by one 
Despleignes du Plessis. In default of direct issue, the lordship of Caude- 
ville fell, one-third to the Nicolais family, another third to a Sieur Lau- 
rent, and the last third to a Marie Courtonne, a cousin-german. No 
sooner was Desrues wedded, than he set to work to appropriate to himself 
the lion's share of the property in perspective. As to the old cobbler 
and his wife, they were ouly too glad to get rid of a succession, the 
trouble of vindicating their right to which appeared to them an unending 
mystery. They sold their claim at once for 40/. down, and an annuity 
of oO/. Laurent was satisfied with the promise of the plate and fur- 
niture. Marie Courtonne alone held out, and would not come to terms. 
In the mean time, the misanthropic tenant of the ruinous castle was found 
one day dead in his arm-chair. He had been shot through the window 
with a fowling-piece loaded with small shot, but whether the crime had 
been committed by some discontented farmer, desperate poacher, or 
others anxious to inherit the estate, was never discovered. The murder 
had manifestly not been committed for purposes of robbery^ as none was 
attempted, and more was never known. 

The peculiar ambition of Desrues was, as with many others who have 
been ill-favoured by nature, not only to gain wealth, but also to stand 
high in the world, to move in good society, and be what is termed a 
person of distinction. In 1773 he sold his grocery, and removed to what 
his Parisian biographer calls << a vast apartment" in the Rue des Deux- 
Boules-Sainte-Opportune. His conversation turned incessantly upon his 
Chateau de Caudeville, and his forests, meadows, and ponds; and he 
called himself Desrues de Bury, and his wife De Nicolai, dropping the 
final ** s." As no actual moneys had come in as yet from these territorial 
seignoralities, he had recourse to loans and to usury to keep up Iu8 
establishment, and he would even borrow (always upon the faith of the 
8ud seignoralities) to lend — not always with the most suooessfblresoUe. 

Revelations of the Guillotine. 257 

It was under these circumstances that an acquaintanceship with the 
procureur Joly brought Desrues into contact with a M. de Saint Faust 
de la Motte, who, with his wife, son, and daughter, inhabited the domain 
of Buisson-Souef, near Villeneuve le Roi, and who, being anxious to forward 
their son's prospects in life, were seeking a purchaser for their domain, in 
order that they might reside in Paris. Desrues at once presented himself as 
the purchaser of the estate ; but as the epoch of this liquidation of the 
Caudeville succession was still in abeyance, he submitted terms — a small 
sum down, a larger sum on signing the contract, a third sum three 
months afterwards, and two other equal payments annually, making a 
total of one hundred and thirty thousand francs. Desrues had not, pro- 
bably, one hundred and thirty pence at his banker's ; but what did that 
matter to a man of his speculative genius. " Who obtains credit owes 
nothing," was his axiom, and he quietly awaited the chapter of events to 
extricate himself from difficulties as they arose. The property of Buisson- 
Souef was an inheritance of Madame de la Motte's, nee Perier; and M. 
de la Motte, who was attached to the court, but in embarrassed circum- 
stances, had condescended to wed a mere bourgeoise for the sake of the 
succession. It was to Madame de la Motte, then, that the most assiduous 
approaches were made by Desrues and his wife, and they induced her to 
sign a contract privately, upon condition of her receiving a personal 
present of four thousand two hundred francs, as pin-money, and for which 
Desrues gave his acceptance at three months. The dates of payment were 
left in this contract to be filled up afterwards. The three months elapsed, 
and the first little bill fell due, and was dishonoured ; but M. and Madame 
Desrues de Bury played their part so well, dwelt with so much emphasis 
upon the delays met with in arranging the liquidation of the Caudeville 
succession, exchanged visits at Buisson-Souef, and so feted M. and Madame 
de la Motte in Paris in their turn, that they were completely thrown off 
their guard. 

But this state of things could not go on for ever. Even the La Mottes 
became impatient, and in December, 1776, Madame la Motte was induced 
to accept an invitation to come and pass a few weeks at the residence of 
the Desrues de Bury, at that time in the Rue Beaubourg, in order that 
some final settlement might be arrived at. Desrues began by excitnig 
distrust on the part of Madame de la Motte towards her quondam friend 
the procureur Joly, and he gradually obtained so much influence over her 
as to induce her to remove her son — at that time a youth of fifteen, at 
college — to a pensionnat of his own selection, in a street significantly 
designated as that of I'Homme Arme. 

Matters went on thus till the 25th of January, 1777, upon which day 
Madame de la Motte was taken ill, with nausea, sickness, and severe 
pains in the head. The illness continued for some days, and Desrues 
persuaded her not to call in a medical man ; as a grocer, he was, he said, 
an expert in drugs, and he undertook to cure, what he termed, an evanes- 
cent indisposition. Desrues accordingly manufactured the ** tisanes," 
which he administered with his own hands, and on the 30th of January 
Madame de la Motte had a second crisis, more violent than the first. To 
the inquiries of her son and attendants, however, Desrues persevered in 
replying at the same time that she was getting better. The next day he 
managed dexterously to get everybody out of the house. The son he sent 

258 Revelations of the GuHlotine. 

off vrith an attendant into the country, &nd he told his wifa to remain in 
toim. Madame de la Motte intended, be said, to go to Versaillei d» 
next day for change of air, and she must ba left quiet to gain strength 
for removal. 

Having thus disembaiTassed himself of importunate witnosses, he sent 
for a stout Auvergnat, whom he conducted into tbe kitchen, where he 
helped him to lift up and place a large heavy box on his shonlders. Not 
&r from bis own door he met Madame Desrues, and he aaked her to go 
to a friend's house^ — a M. Monchy — and request permission to leave 1^ 
box there till the next day. As they were returning, Madame DesroH 
inqaired bow Madame de U Motte was. " So well," replied the husbaDd, 
jauntily, " that she went off to Versailles this very morning." 

Desmes ^bs on foot betimes tbe next morning. Ha directed his ttepi 
towards the more crowded and business quarter of the city, and onlj 
stopped at a house called the " Plat d'Etain," in ftvnt of which jangled 
an inscription, with a notice to the effect that there was a cellar there to 
let. Presenting himself to the mistress of the house, he said that hit 
name was Dn Coudray, that he lived io an hotel of the Rue Montmarti^ 
and that he wished to rent the cellar in order to place there some ^laniili 
wine, which he expected that very day, and for which he had no aceon- 
modation in bis own house. Madame Masson, the landlady, could not, 
however, cede the cellar till the day following. On that day tbe assumed 
Du Coudray went to the Port Saint Nicolas, where he purchased a qusrta 
of cider, and had it put into a cart. He then accompanied die driver to 
his fiiend's, M. Monchy, where he had the box brought down and placed 
in the cart with the barrel, and, thus loaded, he w«nt on to the Pitt 
d'Etain. Unfortunately, on entering the Rue de la Morteilerie, in whidi 
that house fss situated, he met with a creditor, who, with the cnriosi^ 
of a man who has been long deceived, persisted in watching whither m 
slippery customer was bound with his load of merchandise. 

Arrived at the Plat d'Etain, Desruea du Coudray engaged an Auveignit 
to assist in lowering the said merchandise into the cellar ; the bairel wM 
easily managed, but tbe box wa^ found to be very heavy. The men went 
however, so liberally paid that they contented theraselyes with merely ob- 
serviflg the feet When they were gone, Desrues shut himself up in tk 
cellar with a bundle of straw, some deal boards, nails, hammer, and gunlrt, 
all of which he had obtained in the neighbourhood, and he remuned at woik 
there for three hours. 

Tbe same evening young De la Motto called in the Rue Beaubom^ to 
see his mother. He was mueh surprised when he learnt that, ill a* At 
, was, she had gone off to Versailles. Desrues persuaded him to stay, say- 
ing that if he did so, he would go with him next dny to Versailles also. 
The ensuing morning, however, be pretended sudden and impcatsai 
business, and the departure was thus deferred vmder one pretext ni 
another until the lOth of Februarj-. In the mean time, five days' d»- 
tention in the house of tbe Rue Beaubourg had wrought a wondnM 
;e in tbe young man's health. He had become pale, sickly, and wm 
i upon by a low fever; he was, indeed, so weak as KUcely to is 
^take even moderate exercise. Desrues comforted him and niMi 

Versailles, Dearues took a room in the Rue de rOrangm 

Sevelations of the Guillotine. 259 

giying his name as Beaupre, and saying that he had come to place his 
nephew in the war-office, but that the latter had been taken ill .on the 
road, and required some rest. He was^ indeed, apprehensive of small-pox, 
but as he was a medical man, he would himself watch over his ease until 
he was sufficiently recovered to be presented at the office. To the young 
man himself he apologised for his mother not seeing him ; she was, he 
declared, so busily engaged in obtaining him a situation under govern- 
ment. The people of the house were much touched with the affection 
manifested by the pretended uncle i<x his nephew, and they proffered 
whatever assistance might be wanted to bring about the youth's con- 
valescence. Great was their surprise, however, at being suddenly sum- 
moned up-stairs the very next day; the young man was in agony — 
moribund, in fact. The uncle, in despair, claimed the attendance of a 
priest, but before he could come, the young De la Motte was no more ! 

The day after this untoward event, Desrues made a declaration of the 
decease of Louis Antoine, son of Jacques Beanpr6 de Commercy, aged 
twenty-two ; and the same day he attended his funeral, accompanied only 
by the host of the Rue de TOrangerie. This accomplished, he made a 
bundle of the young man's effects, and excusing himself to his host upon 
the plea that he was anxious to break the sad intelligence to the parents 
of the youth, he hurried off to Paris, making his appearance in the Rue 
Beauboui^ with the radiant countenance of a merchant who has just done 
% capital stroke of business. 

The deposit in the cellar of the Plat d'Etain appears, however, to have 
given him some anxiety. He went thither the very next day. Madame 
Masson said all was right, but the porter of the house had remarked that 
whenever his dog passed the cellar door, he scratched and barked fero- 
ciously. Desrues du Coudray laughed at the statement, but was not 
really pleased with it. On quitting the house, he went to the Place de 
Greve, where he hired a workman to dig a hole in the cellar. When this 
man was conducted to the spot, there were three instead of two objects. 
There was a barrel, a box, and something else, carefully wrapped in straw, 
said to be Spanish wine, and which was to be buried, because Spanish 
wine improved rapidly in quality when under ground. The man set to 
work, and Desrues sat by, cheering him in his labour with jokes %uited 
to his comprehension. When the hole was dug, he gave a hand in lower- 
ing -the wine tenderly into its place ; and when this was done, he assisted 
in covering it over, stamping down the ground with comical gesturesi 
The reader will at once comprehend that it was upon the body of the 
unfortimate Madame de la Motte that this wretch was thus indulging his 
indecent buffoonery. 

But Desrues was as yet only half way through his self-imposed and 
cynical tasL He had still to obtain possession of the property. To 
bring this about, he began by asserting that Madame de la Motte had 
made the excuse of going to Versailles an occasion for running away with 
a lover, after he had deposited in her hands the purchase- moneys. He 
|m)duced at the same time the contract, drawn up under the promise of 
& bribe, which he had never made good. This contract, however, was 
itself dependent i^n a power of attorney given by M. de la Motte to hia 
wife, and that power was in the hands of M. Joly. Desrues applied to 
the *< procureur" for this document, but the latter, suspecting that all 

260 Revelations of the Guillotine. 

wag not right, refused to deliver it up, and asked where Madame de la 
Motte was. He also wrote at the same time to M. de la Motte, express- 
ing his apprehensions of foul play. Desrues had not a moment to lose. 
He must find Madame de la Motte. So away he started for Lyons. Thb 
was on the 5th of March. He arrived there on the 7th. Those were not 
railway times. The next day a tall lady, elegantly dressed, but in 
mourning, and her face covered with a black veil, presented herself in the 
study of the notary Baron. She stated that she was Madame de la Motte, 
describing her place of residence, and she requested that an act should be 
drawn up in her name and signed by herself and the notary, requiring 
the procureur Joly to give up a certain power of attorney held by him to 
a certain M. Desrues de Bury. The notary apologised that he had not 
the honour of knowing Madame de la Motte, and that before he drew up 
such a deed she must return, accompanied by two persons domiciled in 
Lyons, who could be witnesses to her identity. Thus discomfited, the 
lady withdrew, but only to try another notary, M. Pourra. The gentle- 
man being out for the moment, the lady was received by his wife, who 
examined the strange visitor with feminine curiosity, and was by no means 
satisfied with the result of her examination. M. Pourra, less cautious, 
however, than M. Baron, drew up the desired document. 

It was at once sent off to Paris, where it fell into the hands of the 
head of the police, who had already ordered a domiciliary visit to be 
e£fected in the Rue Beaubourg. Hence, also, the moment that Desrues 
returned from Lyons he was arrested. This was on the 13th of March. 
His wife was committed to prison shortly afterwards. At the domiciliary 
vbit, Madame de la Motte's watch was found, and the police no longer 
doubted but that they were upon the traces of a great crime. The facts 
of the case soon spread abroad, and became the talk of all Paris. The 
strange proceedings connected with the cellar at the Pot d'Etain oozed 
out, and information was given to the police. A search was made, and 
the tx>dy of Madame de la Motte was exhumed. Convinced of a first 
murder, the police made active researches at Versailles after a second, 
and despite the falsification of names and dates, a clue was sooq obtained 
that led to the exhumation of the body of the unfortonate young De la 
Mott^. Needless to say, that Desrues himself had personified Madame 
de la Motte at Lyons. 

This wretvhed criminal was tried on the 28th of April, and sentenced 
ou t)ie 30th. On the 6lh of May he underwent the preliminary qoes- 
tioii, and although so miserable a specimen of humanity, he withstood 
the torturt" with remarkable fortitude, persisting to the last in hia inoo- 
ceuet\ \Vh«n nnuoved to the Place de Greve, and fixed to the cross of 
St. Audn>w« he turned as yellow as an orange, vet iiis firmness did not 
fi>r*ake him. He lv»ked "round at the crowd, and nodded to sevenl 
i>»rM^u« whckm he n^cognised. When fastened to the wheel, he simply 
looked at th« assistant who held the bar of iron, and said, <* Act qaickiy.' 
The asaUtant struck him on the amis, then on ihe legs, and then on die 
Uii|srh» ; h<» $hri^«d loudly at each bio v« hot when he received the last 
on hi* oh«at» hW e\^« nraiained open« and he no longer moved. His 
body wa» afWrwarvk borate and hu ashes were thnwa to the winds. 
l >wip|i »i> piNrtthtd as he had lived, a nwist detestable hypocrite to the last, 
t^a ¥ »nwuy no^ only to lie to mw^ hot to decetve God» to whom Jw 

Revelations of the Guillotine, 261 

appealed in vain. The peculiar mental manifestations of the individual 
appear to have been immense confidence in himself, without the least 
control of moral or religious feeling, and a contempt for his fellow- 
creatures, sharpened by the fact of his being the despised of all. 

The *' affaire du collier," as it is called — the story of the diamond neck- 
lace — in which poor Marie Antoinette was most innocently yet fatally 
involved, is told by Henry Sanson precisely in the sense now generally 
accepted even by such little scrupulous historical romancers as Alexandre 
Dumas. It was a vile plot of Madame de la Motto's (not the victim of 
Desrues de.Bury, but an illegitimate descendant of Henry II., by Nicole 
de Savigny, and so reduced in early youth as to have had once to beg 
her bread), abetted by the inordinate vanity and ambition of the Prince 
Cardinal of Rohan. This precious descendant of the ancient kings of 
France was a perfect feminine fury. Short in stature, she was well set, 
rather plump than thin, and of great vigour of body. Her features were 
good but irregular, and the expression when at rest pleasing, varied 
greatly when in action. She had beautiful hair, a good complexion, and 
small and neat hands and feet. When her sentence was read to her, she 
appeared maddened with rage, and bit her lips till the blood flowed from 
them. At last, she threw herself back with such force that had she not 
been luckily caught in the arms of an attendant, she must have seriously 
injured herself. She then rolled herself on the ground as if in frightful 
convulsions, howling all the time like a wild beast. It required five men 
to hold her to prevent her inflicting an injury upon herself. 

After ten minutes spent in these fearful struggles, she was removed to 
the great court of the Palais de Justice, where a scaflbld had been 
erected. It was at that time six o'clock in the morning, and there were 
few persons present ; when she had been laid upon the platform the 
fastigation was proceeded with, and as long as it lasted her yells were 
furious and agonising. Her imprecations were especially addressed to 
Cardinal Rohan, whom she accused of her misfortune, and of whom she 
spoke in the most insulting terms. She was also heard to say, *' It is 
my fault if I am subjected to this ignominious treatment ; I had only 
to speak the word, and I should have been hung." 

She was scourged twelve times. When she was raised from thfe in- 
fliction of this degrading punishment, the tears started from her eyelids 
as if projected by some peculiar muscular contraction excited by her 
nervous condition, and instead of falling down her cheeks they actually 
darted forwards. Till that moment, and during all her agony, her 
sufferings had been unrelieved by tears. 

Her dress had been torn and disordered in the prolonged struggle of 
the few previous moments, and Charles Henry Sanson took advantage of 
the circumstance, and of a kind of momentary stupor that had succeeded 
upon the fustigation, to stamp the hot iron of the brand upon one of her 
shoulders. This roused her again with a vengeance. She threw her- 
self, with the cry of a hyaena, upon one of the assistants, and bit him 
lill a piece of flesh remained in her teeth. So fierce were her struggles, 
and so exhaustive the opposition she presented, that the brand could 
never be efiectually applied to the other shoulder. 

The demands of justice being, however, satisfied, Madame de la Motta 
was transferred in a hackney-carriage to the Salp^triere, bat when she 

262 Revelations of the Gvilhtine, 

was being removed she attempted to throw herself beneath the wheeb, 
and even when in prison she tried to suffocate herself by forcing the 
sheets of her bed down her throat. 

She only remained, however, ten months in confinement. It is sup- 
posed that M. de la Motte was enabled to bribe certain partaes with the 
money obtained by the sale of the necklace, and with which he had 
started for London, leaving his wife to be publicly fustigated and branded 
for obtaining possession of the same, and for implicating an kmoeent 
queen in the swindling transaction. Certain it is tiiat a soldier acting as 
sentinel below her window was induced to pass over to her a fight-blue 
coat, with black waistcoat and trousers, round hat, cane, and gloves, so 
that she was enabled to issue forth from her prison in the complete di^* 
guise of a fashionable of the day. It is related that the Sister of Chirify 
who facilitated her escape, said to her, as she went forth, *^ Adieu, 
madame; prenez garde de vous faire remarquer f^ which may be under- 
stood either in the sense of take care you are not noticed^ or take care 
you are not branded again. Madame de la Motte died in London on the 
23rd of August, 1791, some say of a bilious fever, others, that she was 
killed by throwing herself out of her window in a fit of passion. 

The last time that a criminal was sentenced to be broken on the wheel 
was at Versailles, in 1788. The final extinction of so barbarous a prac- 
tice was a first good act of the then prevalent tendency to refomia, which, 
unfortunately, when allowed to run into revolutionary riot, accomplished, 
by means of an instrument not at that time perfected, more murders than 
have ever stained the soil of any other country. This was kow it hap- 
pened : 

There was at Versailles a farrier, Mathurin Louschart by name, who 
carried on his business in the Rue de Montreuil, assisted by an only son. 
Master Mathurin, as he was called, was a fine man, o^ herculean strength, 
although long past his prime, and he was especially and deeply imbued 
with reverence for the existing order of things. Royalty, and all thai 
appertained to it, was with him sacred ; the more so as he was in recep* 
tion of a handsome income as farrier to the court. He was also a member 
of a corporation, and upheld all the prejudices, antipathies, and katanedi 
of such old-established institutions. His son, on the contrary, a hand- 
some young man, although obliged by an imperious fiather to follow a 
coarse but lucrative employment, had been educated at college, where he 
had become a convert to the new ideas of the day. Although, in reality^ 
deeply attached, this unfortunate difference of opinion sowed the seeds o£ 
discord between father and son ; and this difference appears to have been 
further increased by the machinations of a woman — ^Elizabetii Verdier — 
who, with her daughter Helene, inhabited a portion of the house evtr 
since the decease of Madame Louschart. Brought up with this youag 
girl, Jean Louis Louschart had long been attached to her with aa affto<' 
tion of no merely evanescent character. The mother, a vmn, instable^ 
and ambitious wonum, sought, it woifid appear, for a better settlement 
for her daughter, and fixed her hopes, with that view, upon the master of 
the establishment. It is hence probable that she afeo eontribuled in nt 
small degree, having such objects in view, to foment, instead of allaying 
the little social and political divergences of opinion that broke out betiwe^ 
&ther and son. 

JRevelatiotis oft/ie GuiUotijM^ 263 

Certain it is, that, notwitlistaDdiDg every effort on the part of the youth 
to keep himself in the good graces of his obdurate parent, and to uphold 
his suit with t^e companion of his childhood, the pretty Helene, at tibe 
same time, he was one day ignominiously expelled from his father's home 
—-it is said for having incontinently broached some of his philosophical 
ideas concerning that political liberty and equality whidi has been so long 
the ignis fatuus of France. Jean Louis Louschart, rudely expelled from 
the parental roof, was received in the house of Lecointre, a linendraper, 
and who afterwards attained no small notoriety on the breaking out of 
the Revolution. As to Master Mathurin, no sooner was the son ejected 
than he publicly announced,, to die astonishment of his friends and neigh- 
bours, who were well aware of the long- existing attachment of Jean ' 
Louis and Helene Verdier, that he was going to marry the latter young 
person himself. 

The feelings of the youth, under the circumstances, may be more 
readily unagined than described. Driven from the paternal roof, de- 
prived of all pix>^)ects of inheriting from a parent reputed wealthy^ 
severed even from the business, the reported marriage of his father to the 
object of his early and constant affections came as the culmination of his 
misfortunes. He sought, as a last resource, an interview with Madame 
Yerdier; but that coarse woman soon let him know what her intentions 
were, nor would she allow an interview between the two young people to 
take place. That which would naturally be expected to occur under 
such circumstanc,es took place, and the lovers, unable to meet legiti- 
mately, did so clandestinely ; but it is said that so great was Jean Louis's 
respect for his father, that he actually urged the girl to resign herself to 
an evil which was as abhorrent to her as to himself. 

It was with this view that he is said to have re-condueted her to the 
paternal home^ Unfortunately, the old farrier and the petulant virago 
were there to receive them. A scene occurred, into the details of which 
it is unnecessary to enter here. The girl was smote down by her mother, 
notwithstanding the young man's loud protestations of her innocence, and 
the father, stimulated by the revengeful mother, lifted his great hammer 
against his son. The latter was obliged, in order to save his life, to 
disarm his parent ; the old man fell in the struggle, while the son, making 
good his escape at the same moment by the door, cast the horrid weapon 
&om him, behind. Master Mathurin happened to be raising his head at 
the moment, and he received the heavy mass of iron on his right brow^ 
£ell back again, and never spoke another word. 

When Jean Louis was arrested the next morning, he was more sur- 
prised than any one else, for he had never dreamed of evm hurting a 
hair of that parent, whom Madame Vernier was now prepared to swear 
she had seen him slay in cold blood. When he at length mastered the 
bearing of the fearful crime with which he stood accused, ^' Do people 
kill tlieir father ?" was his simple exclamation. 

In presence of the evidence of Madame Verdier, that she had seen the 
son smite his father with her own eyes, no escape remained, however, for 
the youth. He was condemned on the SIst of July, 178^, to be publicly 
broken on the wheel, his body to be afterw£urds burnt, and his ashes cast 
to the winds. 

Charles Henry Sans<Hi was engaged to carry out these melancholy 

264 Revelations oftlie Chdllotme. 

behests of the law, and to transfer the necessary apparatos from Paris. 
He arrived there on the 2nd of August, and was surprised at finding the 
Place Saint Louis so encumbered with an excited popolaee, that it was 
with the greatest difficulty that his workmen could proeeed with the 
erection of the scaffold. These demonstrations led to the further erectkm 
of a palisade round the scaffold, as also to the demand for a small fme 
of soldiers to assist the gendarmerie in case of tumalt or disord^ the 
ensuing day — the one 6xed for the execution. The latter was also fixed 
for an early hour — half-past four in the morning—in the hopes that all 
would be over before the mob would be abroad. 

The authorities were, however, labouring under a misconception as to 
the true nature of the demonstration. It was perfectly organised, and 
the populace were determined that the last penalty of the law should not 
be carried out in the instance of a person whom they believed to be the 
victim of an imjust persecution. Even at that early hour it was with 
difficulty that the cart could be driven through the dense crowd that 
encumbered those streets, generally so silent and deserted. As to Jean 
Louis> he seemed insensible to the excitement which his presence created; 
he was almost solely absorbed in the exhortations of die chaplain who 
accompanied him, and it was only at the comer of the Roe Satory that 
a shriek from a female vmce aroused him from the state of pious res^ 
nation in which he seemed plunged. Then, for the first tinie, he wept, 
and was heard to exclaim, ^' Adieu, Helene, adieu !" 

^ C*e$t au revoir qull faut dire, Jean Louis f exdaiatied a eolossal 
man^ who, with a group of other stalwart workmen, bad accompanied the 
fatal can firom the prison doors. And he added, ^They do not break 
felk>ws like TQu on the wheel !*' 

The crowd applauded these ohserrations with dieers, tfiat were taken 
up and prokmged to the Place Saint Louis. And no sooner, indeed, had 
the iMTOcession arrived at the foot of the scaffold, than the mob began its 
work. In a moment the palisading fiew to pieces, and a howling, furious 
irresistihie mass of human beings took possesaon of the scaffold. The 
bonds that bound down the condemned man were cot in twain, and he 
was bobted upon the sboulders of workmen, to be paraded tnumphaady 
tbroogh the streets. Jean Low is said to have resisted tbese proceed- 
ings. He is de scri bed as wishing^ to die. bec au se be bad been uninten- 
tionaliy the cause of his tath«r s death. No baim waa done to ** Chariot,* 
as the people called the public executioner, but be was glad to make Ins 
escape the moment an oppoortmutr presected itsel£ Wbal die soldierf 
«id the gefidarmefie didL we are not told. No dosbt tbej Mt tiie utter 
iwatiiity or sUu ^ ^giii ^f against such multitodes. and took themselTCS off 
bke««^. As to the sca^>id. it w«s torn to pieces : tbe fire, wbidi was 
to bavi^ judicialhr c o n ga med ibe lemains of Jean Louisa was lit «p and fed 
wiib m fragments. aaK«4r vbicb was tbe wbecl or croaa of St. Andrew- 
committed tck tbe ftame$^ibr tbe first and bst timei. Men amd womett 
4»n ioined baadb, and danced and sang toand ^be b ot fiic^ rejoicing ia 
^bnrexploii. It wats;. savs Henry SanEKNi. *~ ^be fe^ popakr lieslival of 
tb» BevUatioaL'' It is^ indeed, a cwrioats imiiihat uaM. tfa^ wn do not 
fiad ie«e«vdtd in ^ fa^fts ef Mi gb a kc ef Loam Biaam, or even of 
TWraNUKx: tH> altbiwagb tfte r^adit witt not iiadflT aAaart tbe correctneg 


Revelations of the Guillotine. 265 

asseverations of the public executioner, still the latter and more public 
incidents that attended this last attempt to carry out a barbarous 
solemnity must be accepted as historical. 

Previous to this incident of the abolition of the wheel, and the first 
breaking out of popular excesses, Charles Henry Sanson had taken to 
himself a wife, the daughter of a market-gardener residing at Mont- 
martre (which was not at that time covered with whitewashed cottages 
with green shutters), and whose acquaintance he had made when out 
shooting. The lady was thirty-two years of age, six years the senior of 
Charles Henry, and admirably adapted by her mental qualifications to 
take the head of the establishment of the chief executioner, which was at 
that epoch one of some importance. The former head of the house, 
Martha Dubut, had been called to her last account some time previously ; 
but Jean Baptiste, the paralytic executioner, having lost his wife, had 
returned upon the hands of the family. The hotel in the Faubourg 
Poissonniere had been sold, and the establishment had removed to the Rue 
du Chateau d'Eau, in a spacious house with court and garden. 

Charles Henry Sanson was twice in the presence of the unfortunate 
monarch Louis XVI. before he met him for the last time on the scaf- 
fold. The first of these occasions was caused by his claiming certain 
arrears of pay which the embarrassment of the royal finances had pre- 
vented being liquidated. Nothing remarkable occurred at this first 
interview, save that the monarch shuddered at the sight of the " m^tre 
des hautes oeuvres;" and Henry believes it was from a sad presentiment 
of evil, rather than from the horror inspired by the profession of the 
visitor. Credat Judaeus Apella ! Sanson, having explained to his 
majesty that he was in danger of arrest from not having wherewith to 
pay his creditors, the king, unable to liquidate the debt, ordered him a 
" sauf-conduit,'* which debarred his creditors from interfering with his 

It was at the same epoch — that is to say, towards the end of 1789 — 
that Doctor Guillotin, deputy for the third estate in Paris — " to his eternal 
honour," according to Henry Sanson — first brought his motion before the 
National Assembly for inflicting the punishment of death in a uniform 
manner, without distinction of classes, and by simple decapitation. The 
adoption of this motion, although favourably received by an assembly of 
" egalitaires," was postponed for two years, on account of the difficulty of 
arriving at a decision as to the means of decapitation. Two incidents 
occurred in this long interval that tended to confirm the revolutionary 
feeling of the day against the old and more barbarous methods of putting 
to death. One of these was the case of the two young brothers Agasse, 
of good family, who had been convicted of forgery, and condemned to 
death. Their father, eighty years of age, was president of the district of 
Saint Honor^. Charles Henry made his appearance upon this occasion 
with the national cockade in his hat. The young men were pitied, not 
only for their early fate and good connexions, but also because it was felt 
that the punishment was in excess of the crime. " If," exclaimed Prud- 
homme in his " Revolutions,** such crimes are punished with death, what 
punishment remains for the assassin, the parricide, or the traitor to his 
country f " The designation of the last, as the culminating point of 
crime, manifested how the public mind already stood on the brink of that 

266 Herniations of the CruiUatine. 

predpioe of matual distruBt which ultimately led to tlie destraetion of 
Tictiins and victimisers alike. Public feeling was also outraged at this 
execution, by the fact that the elder brother, on being led down the 
steps of the H6tel de Ville, had the body of his brother swinging in the 
air right be£ore him. 

Tl^ second case was that of the Marquis of Farras, convicted with 
having conspired to procure the liberation of the royal funily. Monsieui^ 
the king's lH*other, was implicated in the transaction, but he cleared him- 
self, not very chivalrously, and at the expense of M. de Favras, by pub* 
licly declaring at ihe Hdtel de Ville that he had nothing but financial, 
and never any personal, affairs with the zealous but unfortunate royalist. 
Henry Sanson remarks, ironically, that '' Monsieur" was a good deal 
indebted for the applause which his public exculpation met with, to the 
fact that the people were not at that time accustomed to have princes of 
the blood pleading in their presence. '' The step taken by Monsieur 
flattered those feelings of pride which the nation derived fr(Hn the con- 
sciousness of its importance." Such a step was, for that very reason, ex- 
cessively mischievous, as every new concession, at sudi a crisis, tended to 
augment the self-importance of the mob. It was no longer a question 
of legal proceedings — the head of M. de Favras was claimed by the popu- 
lace. The judges had lately ^quitted the farmer-general Augeaod, 
accused with having supplied moneys with which to bribe the soldiery, as 
also the Baron de Besenval, colonel of the Swiss Guard, implicated in the 
affair of July at the Champ de Mars, and they no longer daned to refuse 
a victim to public clamour. M. de Favras was condemned to be hung. 
He was actually led forth from the court to the scaffold, and no one pud 
attention to the fearful precedent which was thus established. The 
truculent mob insisted, also, that he should be led to the scaffold with the 
rope round his neck. 

" Aliens, saute, marquis !" was the expression of their melancholy 
cynicism. M. de Favras perished like a gentleman — a victim to the un- 
bridled and disloyal passioijs of the populace — with expressions neither of 
anger, impatience, nor contempt, at the manner in which he was treated, 
but with the firmness of an innocent man dying in a just cause, and re- 
signed to the will of Heaven. 

In the mean time Doctor Guillotin'was making but little progress in 
his researches to discover the best means for decapitating his fellowr 
creatures. All that was presented by the past, as well as in the experi- 
ence of other countries, was carefully consulted. Three German printi^ 
by Pentz, Aldegreder, and Lucas of Cranach, as also an Italian print of 
1655, due to Achille Bocchi, furnished models of machines to that efieet, 
but which left much to desire. In the so-called Mannaia, by which the 
famous conspirator Giustiniani suffered at Genoa, the patient was placed 
on his knees, while his head was bent forwards on a block. Sanson 
insisted that the body should be horizontally placed, so as to be relieved 
of its own weight, and thus offer no resistance to the action of the knife. 
According to Henry Sanson, the real discoverer of the guillotine was one 
Schmidt, who used to play the piano at his grandfather^s house, while the 
latter accompanied him on the violin. This German was an excellent 
mechanic, as well as a good musician, and Sanson having told him of the 
dilemma in which they were then placed, he at once sketched a machine 

Revelations of the Guillotine.. 267. 

which hecame afterwards the guillotine— a knife suspended between two. 
grooved uprights, and a movable plank, to which the patient could be< 
made fast and then tilted over, so that his neck should fall at the point 
where the knife, loosened by a mere bit of string, would come down and 
sever it in twain. 

Doctor Guillotin communicated the discovery to the Assembly on the 
31st of April, 1791, and Doctor Louis, the king^s physician, was ap- 
pointed to advise upon its adoption. The love of the monarch for 
mechanics, especially in the matter of locks and watches, is well known, 
and having expressed to his physician his wish to see the proposed 
mechanism, Sanson accompanied Doctor Guillotin to a conference held in 
the Tuileries, on the 2nd^of March, 1792. They were received by Doctor 
Louis, and were in the act of examining the sketch, when a door opened, 
behind the tapestry, and another person entered into the doctor's study : 

Doctor. Louis, till that time seated, rose up. The new comer cast a 
cold look at Dr. Guillotin, who bowed reverentially, and then addressing 
himself abruptly to Louis, he said : 

** Well, doctor! what do you think of it?'* 

" It appears to me perfect," answered the doctor, " and fully justifies 
all that M. Guillotin has told me about it." 

Saying this, he passed over the sketch to the person who had inter- 
rogated him. The latter examined it a few moments in silence, and then 
shook his head, as if in doubt. 

** Is this knife, in the form of a crescent, what is wanted ? Do you 
think that a knife so formed can adapt itself exactly to all necks ? There, 
are some that it would barely cut, and others that it would not even 

Ever since this person had come in, Charles Henry Sanson had not lost 
a look nor a word. The sound of the voice satisfied him that he was not. 
deceived in his first impression ; it was the king who was once more before 
him — the king in a dark suit, without orders on his breast, and who, by 
the attitude which he had taken and imposed on those who must know 
him, showed that he wished this time to preserve a strict incognito. 

Charles Henry Sanson was struck with the justice of his observation, 
and mechanically raising his eyes to the king's neck, which was but. 
lightly covered with a thin lace kerchief, he remarked that the prince, 
vigorously constituted, had a muscular neck, the proportions of which far . 
exceeded the dimensions of the crescent traced by Schmidt's pencil. He 
shuddered involuntarily, and, as he remained absorbed in thought, he 
heard the king's voice whispering to Doctor Louis, while his eyes were . 
on him : 


The doctor nodded an affirmative. 

" Ask him his opinion," added Louis XVI. 

" You have heard monsieur's observation," said the king's physician. 
" What do you think as to the proper shape of the knife ?" 

" Monsieur is perfectly in the right," my grandfather replied, dwell- 
ing with a marked emphasis upon the word, Monsieur; "the shape of 
the knife might entail difficulties." 

The king smiled with an appearance of satisfaction ; then, taking up 


268 Revelations of the Guillotine. 

a pen from Doctor Louis's table, he corrected tlie design by substituting 
an oblique line for the crescent. 

<<But I may be deceived," he added; ^'s^nd when experiments are 
made, both shapes must be tried.'* 

The kin^ then rose, and saluting the company with a ware of his hand, 
he withdrew. 

The report was sent up to the Assembly by Doctor Louis five days 
after this conference — the 6th of March— -and on the 20th the doctor was 
empowered to construct a machine. A carpenter, Guidon by name, 
undertook the task at an expense of 5500 francs, or about 230^ When 
it was completed, a first essay was made upon three bpdies in the prison 
Bic^tre. The experiments took place in the court of the prison on the 
17th of April, in the presence of Doctors Louis, Pinel, and Cabanis — all 
men of European reputation — the Sansons, and others. The pri- 
soners also contemplated the strange scene from their windows. The 
first two attempts with the oblique edge succeeded perfectly ; the third, 
with the concave edge, failed. The oblique knife gained the day. 

Little more than a week had elapsed before Charles Henry also ex- 
perimented successfully upon the living body, in the person of one 
Pelletier, condemned for highway robbery with violence. People at ^is 
time called the machine Louison and Louisette, after Doctor Louis; 
others called it Guillotine, after Doctor, Guillotin. It ought to have been 
called after Schmidt, which would have involved the reputation of the 
numerous family of Smiths ; but Henry Sanson says that the name that 
remained to it was best deserved, for it was due to the efforts of Doctor 
Guillotin that other cruel and barbarous methods of putting to death were 
superseded by a simple, quick, and effective mode of decapitation. 
Henry Sanson reserves to another chapter the consideration of the dis- 
puted question as to the amount of pain and consciousness involved in de- 
capitation by the guillotine, and he promises us the results of his personal 
experiences upon this mysterious subject. 

The hour was now approaching when the history of France, according 
to Henry Sanson, became that of the scaffold. Certain it is that all 
social, financial, and political difficulties met their solution beneath the 
triangular wedge. The executioner could exclaim that it was for hiffl 
alone that a revolution had been effected, and Charles Henry emerged 
into " le grand Sanson !" A first change took place on the 19th of 
August, on the occasion of the execution of one Collot, condemned ix 
forgery. On the fatal cart making its way to the Place de la Gr^ve, the 
mob shouted out : 

" Au Carousel !" 

The equipage continuing its way, a man seized the horse by the bridle, 
and declared that it was the will of the " commune" that the guillotine, 
destined for the future to punish the valets and slaves of tyrants, should 
be raised in front of the palace of the last king. Charles Henry argued 
that he could not act against his orders, and, besides, that it was too late 
to remove the scaffold. He was only allowed to proceed as far as the 
H6tel de Ville to receive new instructions. These were in favour of tiie 
will of the sovereign people. The scaffold had accordingly to be taken 
down and removed at once to the Carousel, accompanied by the mob tkat 

JSevetations of the GuilU^ne, 269 

iiad assisted in taking it to pieces singing patriotic songs. Arrived in 
front of the Tuileries, Charles Henry perceived that his assistants had 
fraternised so copiously on the way as to he no longer fit for duty, but 
the mob manifested as much good will in re- erecting the scaffold as it had 
shown in pulling it to pieces, and it was soon up again. But the opera* 
tion had to be performed by the light of torches. Another difficulty pre* 
sented itself; ^*le grand Sanson" was left, by the defalcation of his 
assistants, alone with his convict. Hence he again urged the postpone* 
ment of the execution. A beardless young man, however, with a red cap 
on his head, came forward and proffered his assistance, with the usual ex- 
cited expressions of patriotism, devotion, and hatred of the aristocracy, 
which had become the jargon of the day. Sanson accepted the youth's 
services, the more especially as the convict, whose hopes had been excited 
by the long delay, struggled vehemently against this irregular proceed- 
ing. The improvised executioner acted with energy, but his pallid 
countenance, bedewed with a cold perspiration, soon showed how mucli 
he was affected by the new duties he had imposed upon himself. Sanson 
was not the man to spare him. When at length the victim had been 
fastened to the plank and tumbled down to his proper position, he handed 
over the string to the youth, who let it slip with a nervous tremor. But 
the mob was not satisned ; it requested to be shown the head. Sanson 
told the young man he could not give a better proof of his vaunted 
patriotism than by holding it out. The youth rushed to the basket, took 
out the head by the hair, and advanced with it to the front of the plat- 
form, but at the very moment that he was lifting up the bloody trophy, 
he himself fell backwards. He had been struck down by apoplexy, and 
never moved again. 

The Carousel remained for several months after this the scene of all 
public executions. Political victims had taken the place now of the 
convicts of yore. Suleau, a royalist journalist, was massacred in the 
Court des Feuillants, at the instigation of the sanguinary Amazon, Th6- 
roigne de M^ricourt. Durosoy, another of the same stamp, fell beneath 
the knife of the guillotine, and was succeeded by a veteran royalist officer, 
D'Angremont, and he again by a venerable old man, Laporte, intendant 
of the civil list. One Juiien having been condemned to the pillory, 
shouted thence, ** Vive le Roi ! Vive la Reine ! Au Diable la Nation!" For 
this he was nigh being stoned to death, and then torn to pieces, and he 
was only saved to be executed the next day. The 3rd of September the 
guillotine had a holiday. It did not do its duty swiftly enough to satisfy 
the passions of the populace, and a crowd of cut-throats usurped its 
functions. Major Bachmann, of the Swiss Guard, was, however, spared 
from the massacre to perish by the guillotine. But for him it would 
have had two days' rest. Cazotte, the poet, who is said to have pre- 
dicted the fate of the aristocracy of Paris, was the next victim. The 
number of executions underwent, indeed, no decrease up to the period of 
the king's death, but it never attained the proportions which it assumed 
a few months afterwards. 

Gnondists and Montagnards were now at open war. The triumph 
must inevitably lay with the party which was prepared to make the 
greatest concessions to popular clamour. The Convention itself was a 
phantom. The communes usurped all power. Yet, strange enough, 

t2 . 

270 Revelations of the Guillotine* 

the state of anarchy and disorder was so general, that the commnneft 
themselves were at times nearly coming to hands. Charles Henry 
Sanson relates that he and his father had been compelled to take part in 
the meetings of their district, or " commune." They also formed part of li 
deputation sent on the 12th of August to the Hdtel de Ville to protest 
against the presence of a stranger at their deliberations. As this person 
was an agent of Robespierre's, the deputation was not merely snubbetf, 
but actually threatened. Charles Henry describes his life as having 
been several times placed in imminent danger by the crowd of cnlh 
throats who filled the courts of the H5tel. It was, indeed, with iht 
greatest trouble that the members of the deputation effected their escape^ 
and when they described what had occurred to their own section, it rose 
to a man to exact revenge. Two thousand men with four guns were 
ready in two hours to march against the central commune, and war 
would have broken out, as in the middle ages, between two quarters ef 
Paris, had it not been for the timely concessions and apologies made b^ 
Kobespierre and Chaumette. 

Such was the condition of Paris at the time when Louis XVI. wM 
brought to the scaffold. It is impossible to picture to oneself a more 
frightful state of anarchy — every one distrustful of his neighbour — com^ 
munes or districts in arms for the safety of their localities — all public 
authority and representation in abeyance, and the whole population con- 
trolled by the dread of a few unprincipled, audacious cut-throats wh6 
had obtained possession of the Hdtel de Vllle, where they were protected 
by a body-guard of the lowest dregs of the population— criminals and 

The oratorical struggles carried on between the Girondists and the 
Montagnards at the Convention, for and against the royal captive being 
placed upon his trial, may, in the face of such a state of things, be looked 
upon as so much eloquence cast to the winds, so much zeal spent in 
vain. The fate of the unfortunate monarch was decided upon the first 
day that the conspiracies and attempts made upon his own liberty aad. 
life were converted into so many crimes committed on his side. It was 
the 11th of December, 1792, that Louis Capet appeared before the Cofl- 
vention; sentence of death was passed on the 17th of January, 1793. 
His death-warrant was obtained by a majority of 70 out of 690 voters. ; 
The last moments of the King of France have been depicted by mat^ 
a picturesque pen, but it is impossible not to feel that the executioner 
was placed in a position to describe details with greater minuteness than 
probably any other person — in a certain sense more than even the chap- 
lain himself — and that he must have observed many things that would 
have escaped the eyes of others. 

The Sansons were in great force upon this g^eat and solemn occasion. 
There jvas Charles Henry, the head of the family ; Henry, the historian's 
father ; besides Charlemagne Sanson and another brother, provineitl 
executioners, who had volunteered their assistance. Henry's father had 
to attend in uniform as a member of one of the battalions supplied % 
each section on that eventful day, and we are assured that he was ready 
to have acted in favour of a rescue had the occasion presented itsetf. 
The other Sansons were armed to the teeth, and that under thick over- 
coats in which they were completely enveloped. They were also, we tf<^ 

Revelations of the Guillotine. 271 

assured, prepared for a rescue, and to act in case of necessity with the 

The subsequent details are g^ven in the words of Charles Henry 
Sanson, the executioner, himself: 


I left at eight o'clock this morning, after having embraced my poor 
wife and my son, whom I had no hopes of ever seeing again, and I 
stepped into a hackney-carriage with my two brothers, Charlemagne and 
liOuis Martin. The crowd in the streets was so dense, that it was nine 
o'clock before we arrived at the Place de la Revolution. Gros and 
Barre, my assistants, had got the machine up, but I was so filled with 
the idea that it would not be wanted, that I scarcely looked at it. My 
brothers and myself were well armed ; we had under ouy wrappers be- 
sides our swords, daggers, four pistols in our waistbands, powder-horns, 
^nd our pockets full of balls. We felt convinced that an attempt would 
be made to deliver the unfortunate prince, and that we' could not be 
too well armed to second such an effort if made. (It is to be remarked 
here, that the Sansons had received intimations from many parties per- 
sonally, as also by anonymous letters, some of which were accompanied 
by threats of violence in case of opposition, of intended attempts to save 
the life of the monarch.) 

Arrived on the Place, I looked about for my son, and I saw him at 
acme distance with his battalion. He looked at me expressively, and 
seemed to encourage me in the belief that I should not, upon this occa- 
sion, drink the cup to the dregs. I also lent an anxious ear to any noise 
that might forewarn me of one of those attempts at succour which had 
been announced to me the day before. I even rejoiced in the idea that, 
perchance, by that time the king had been torn from his escort, and was 
flying under the protection of devoted friends, unless the inconstant and 
mobile populace, whose sentiments are so easily changed, had taken him 
under their own all-powerful protection, and had converted the punish- 
ment that had been prepared K>r him into an ovation. 

Whilst I was thus indulging in vain illusions, and giving myself up to 
dreamy fancies, I was aroused by a painful consciousness of the approach 
of the procession. 

My eyes had turned once or twice anxiously in the direction of the 
Madeleine. Suddenly, I saw a body of cavalry come forward, with a 
carriage drawn by two horses, surrounded by a crowd of horsemen, and 
also escorted by cavalry. There was no doubt about the matter ; it was 
the martyr who was thus being brought to the scaffold. My sight be- 
came confused, an involuntary shudder pervaded my whole frame ; I 
looked at my son, and his face was lividly pale. 

The carriage, in the mean time, had arrived. The king was seated in 
the back, having by his side a priest, his confessor ; whilst on the front 
seat were two non-commissioned officers of gendarmerie. The door was 
opened ; the gendarmes came down first, followed by the venerable 
priest, accoutred in the proscribed garments which I had not seen for a 
long time, and then the king, more dignified, more calm, and more 
majestic than I had seen him at Versailles or at the Tuileries. 

On seeing him being led towards the steps, I cast a glance of despair 
around me; but I could see nothing but soldiers. The populace was 

272 BevelatioTis of the GuHhiine. 

kept back in the rear of the armed foroe> and seemed ad i£ struck with 
stupor, and all preserved a gloomy silence. The roll of the drums, whiek 
never ceased, would,^ besides, have drowned their cries for pity, should 
any such have emanated from them. Where are these libecatois^ so 
ostentatiously announced? Charlemagne and I were in a state of con- 
sternation ; Martin, younger and more intrepid, advanced, and, taking off 
his hat in the most respectful manner, observed to the king that it would 
he necessary to remove his coat. 

'* It is uB^ess," he replied ; *Hhey may finish with nae as I am." 

My brother persisted, and added, that it was iodispensable that his 
bands should be tied. This last c(Hidi4ion appeared to iraitater him ex- 
ceedingly, and he blushed up to his forehead. 

*^ What L" he said, ^' would you diu?e to touch me? Here, here is my 
coat, but do not touch me !" 

Saying this, he himself took off his coat. Charlemagne tibea went up 
to the assistance of Martin, but, not daring to address the illustrioug 
victim in the language dictated by his heart in the presence of the fero- 
cious hordes that surrounded the scaffold, he merely observed, but in t 
manner that let his secret tears be guessed : 

'' It is absolutely necessary. The execution is impossible without 

Recalled, at the same time, to a sense of my duty, and unwiUisg that 
the whole responsibilities should fall upon my brothers, I tumed to ths 
chaplain's ear : 

*' Monsieur Tabb^,'' I said to him, ^ I pray of you to obtain the king^s 
acquiescence. We shall gain time whilst his hands are beinr tied, am 
it is impossible that such a spectacle should not end by moving toe feeling* 
of the populace.'* 

The abb^ turned towards me with a melancholy look, in which sat* 
prise, incredulity, and resignation were at once depicted, and thso^ 
addressing himself to the king : 

" Sire," he said, ^^ resign yourself to this last sacrifice, hy which yoa 
will still more dosely resemble the God who is about to reward you." 

The king then at once consented to hold out his arms at the same 
time that his confessor held up the image of Christ to his lips. Two 
assistants bound together the hands that had held a sceptre. It seemed 
to me that this must be the signal for the reaction, which could not fsil 
to declare itself in favour of this touching victim ; but nothing of the 
kind — nothing but the infernal roll of the drums. 

The king, supported by the worthy priest, ascended the steps of the 
scaffold slowly and with majesty. 

'' Are not the drums going ta cease?" he inquired of Charlemagne* 

The latter made a sign to the effect that he had nothing to do with 
ihe matter. 

Arrived upon the platform, he advanced towards the »de where the 
crowd seemed to be densest, and, with a motion of his head, he g^ve an 
imperative signal to the drummers, who for a moment suspended their 
beating by an involuntary impulse. 

*' Frenchmen," he then said, in a loud voice, *' you see your king ready 
t^ die for you. May my blood cement your happiness. I die innocent 
of all that I have been accused of." 

Bevelations qf&e Guillotine. 273 

He was about to continue, but Sauterre, who was at the head of his 
staff, made a ^gn to the drummers, who immediately began their roll, 
and allowed nothing further to be heard. 

Another moment^ and the king was made fiist to the &tal plank, and 
at the very instant that the knife was gliding down upon his head, he 
may have heard the grare voice of the pious ecclesiastic who had ac- 
companied him on the scaffold pronouncing these words : 

'^ Son of Saint Louis, ascend to heaven f 

Thus ended the life of this unfortunate prince, whom a thbusand men 
of resolution might have saved at this last moment, when, even among 
the soldiery, his presence had aroused feelings of real compassion ; and I 
could not understand, after the notices J received the previous day, how 
he came to be so cruelly abandoned. The least signal would have sufficed 
to have brought about a diversion in his favour; for if, when my assistant, 
Gros, exhibited that august head to the mob, a few convicts gave vent to 
shouts of triumph, the majority turned away with deep horror and pain- 
ful shndderings. 

Such is the narrative given by Charles Henry Sanson, and it is to be 
observed that it is not indited to suit the tone of feeling of the present 
day, but was written the day after the execution. Nay, he had the 
courage to write in nearly the same sense to the Thermometre du Jour 
at the very epoch in question. Henry Sanson, the historian of the family, 
complains that M. de Lamartine should in his '' History of the Gironding'' 
have represented the Sausons as ^^ tutoying," or speaking rudely to the 
xnonardi at the foot of the scaffold, ana as lifting up their hands, and 
heing ready to have recourse to violence towards the martyr king. Not 
only, according to Charles Henry's account, were the feelings of every 
member of the family deeply interested in the fate of the revered and 
unfortunate monarch, but they were armed to the teeth to assist his escape, 
if the attempt had been made. If the testimony of at least a latent 
loyalty^ remains then in favour even of the very men who had to carry 
out the outrageous behests of the mob, what must it have been with mere 
lookers-on at so sad a spectacle, but who from the utter distrust pervading 
all classes of society, brought about by a reign of terror, dared not even 
hreathe their pity or aspirations of succour to one another ? Thus it was 
that Louis XVI. fell in the midst of a prostrate people, who left him at 
the mercy of a small knot of cut-throats and assassins. 

( 274 ) 

bt the author op " east lynne." 

Past the Twektx-seoond. 



In the old pdrch at Ashlydyat of which you have heard so much, 
sat Thomas Oodolphin. An invalid chair had been placed t^hedre, and 
he lay back on its pillows in the afternoon sun of the late autumn. A 
warm, sunny autumn, had it been ; a real '' Ete de St. Martin«" He 
was feeling wondrously well ; almost, but for his ever-pres^it feeling 
of weakness, quite well. His fatigue of the previous day — that'ot 
Cecil's wedding — had left no permanent effects upon him, and had he 
not known thoroughly his own hopeless state, he might have fanded 
this afternoon that, he was about to get well all one way. 

Not in his looks. Pale, wan, ghastly were they ; the shadow of the 
grim, implacable visitor that was so soon to come was already on 
them : but the face in its calm stillness told of ineffable peace : the. 
brunt of the storm had passed. 

The white walls of Lady Godolphin's Folly glittered brightly in the 
distance; the dark-blue sky was seen through the branches of the 
trees, growing bare and more bare against the coming winter ; the 
warm rays of the sun fell on Thomas Qodolphin. In his hand he held 
a book from which others than Thomas Godolphin have derived courage 
and consolation — " God is love." He was reading at that moment of 
the great love of God towards those who strive, as he had done, to lire.- 
for Him ; he looked up, repeating the sentence : " He loves them in 
death and will love them through the never-ending ages of the woxld 
to come." Just then his eyes lell on the figure of Margery, who was 
advancing towards Ashlydyat. Thomas closed his book, and held oilt 
his hand. 

" My mistress told me you'd have said Good-by to me yesterday^ 
Mr. Thomas, and it was just my ill luck to be out. I'd gone to take 
the child's shoes to be mended — she wears 'em out fast, she does. But 
you are not going to leave us yet, sir ?" 

" I know not how soon it may be, Margery : very long it cannot be. 
Sit down." 

She stood yet, however, looking at him, disregarding the bench to 
which he had pointed; stood with a saddened expression and cem- 
pressed lips. Margery's was an experienced eye, and it may be that 
she saw the shadow which had taken up its abode in his face. 

" You be going to see my old master and mistress, sir," she buret 
forth, dashing some rebellious moisture from her eyes. " Mr. ThomaS} 
do you recollect it ?^ — my poor mistress sat here in this porch the very 
day she died." 

The Shadow of Ashlydyat 2 75 

" I remember it well, Margery. I am dying quietly, thank God, as 
my mother die8." 

" And what a blessing it is when folks can die qui,etly, with their 
conscience and all about 'em at peace !" ejaculated 'Margery. " I 
wonder how Mr. George 'ud have took it, if Ae'd been called instead o* 
you, sir ?*' 

There was considerable acrimony, not to say sarcasm in the remark ; 
perhaps not altogether suitable to the scene and interview. Good 
Thomas Godolphin would not see it or appear to have noticed it. He 
took Margery's hands in his. 

" I never thought once that I should die leaving you in debt, Mar- 
gery," he said, his earnest tone bearing its own emotion. " It was 
always my intention to bequeath you an annuity thaV^ould have kept 
you from want in your old age. But it has been decreed otherwise ; 
and it is of no use to speak of what might have been. Miss Janet \9 ill 
refund to you by degrees what you have lost in the bank ; and so long 
aa you live you will be welcome to a home with her. She has not 
much, but— — '* 

" JSTow never fash yourself about me, Mr. Thomas,'* interrupted 
Margery. " I shall do well, I dare say : I'm young enough yet for 
work, I hope ; I shan't Starve. Ah, this world's nothing but a peck 
o' troubles," she added, with a loud sigh. " You'll find that, sir, when 
you've left it : and it's a happy thing for them as can learn as much 
afore they go." 

" The troubles have nearly passed, for me," he said, a smile illu- 
mining his wan and wasted features. 

"It's to be hoped they have, sir. But you wei*e always one to think 
and care for others : and it is by such that troubles stand the longest 
and are felt the deepest. If one didn't learn with one's mother's miii, 
as it were, that all God does is for the best, one might be tempted to 
wonder why He lets 'em come to such as you. This world has had its 
share of sorrow for you, Mr. Thomas." 

" I am on the threshold of a better, Margery," was his' quiet. 
answer: " one where sorrow cannot enter." 

Margery sat for some little time on the bench, talking to him. 
They had gone back in thought to old times, to the illness and death 
of Mrs. Godolphin, to the long-gone scenes of the past, whether 6i 
pleasure or of pain: a past which for us all seems to Tbear a chJarm 
when recalled to the memory, which it had never borne wheii present. 
At length Margery rose to depart, declining the invitation to enter the 
house or to see the ladies, and Thomas said to her his last farewell. 

** My late missis, I remember, looked once or twice during her 
illness as grey as he do," she cogitated with herself as she went along. 
" But it strikes me that with him it's death. I've a gteat mind to ask 
old Snow what he thinks. If it is so, Mr. George ought lio be tele- 
graphed for : they 5c brothers, after all." 

Margery made her way direct to the house of Mr. Snow^ Mr. Snow 
was absent, but Mr. Snow's boy was keeping the surgery, and by way 
of doing it agreeably, was standing on his head on the counter. 

"Now then!" cned Margery, in her sharpest accent, "is that how 
you attend to the place in your master's absence ? Where is he ?" 

276 The Shadow ofAshJydyai. 

The boy had scuttered to hi& feet on the floor, very much reHeved 
when he saw the intruder was only Margery. " IIe*s*caught up iato 
the moon," cried he, impudently. 

"I'll catch you, tf you don't behave yourself^" rebuked Mai^g^^^ 
" Tou tell me where your master is." 

" If he ain't there he's elsewhere,'* retorted the bold boy. " This 
here surgery haven't seen the colour of his skin since morning." 

G-iving the boy a smart box on the ear to remind him of her viai^ 
Margery went out again. About half way home she encountered Mr. 
Snow. He was coming along on the run, and would have .passed 
Margery, but she arrested him. 

" There's no bumbailie after you, is there?" cried she, in her jGrtt 
manners. " Can't you stop a minute, sir ?" 

" I've been a few miles up the line and have got back late ; the tranji 
was twenty minutes behind its time. "What is it, Margery woman ?" 

"^ Well, I want to know your opinion of Mr. G-odolphin, sir. I hwe 
just been up to see him, and I don't like hia look." 

" Does he look worse than usual ?" 

" If I am not mistaken he loo^s as he have never looked yet ; as 
folks can look but once in their lives — and that's right afor^ deatb^^ 
returned Margery. " When shall you see him, sir ?" 

" This evening if I possibly can. iN'ot that wiytbing can. be done 
for him : as we all know too well.*' 

" I'd like to ask you another question, sir, now we are by ourselves,*' 
resumed Margery, laying hold of his coat-taiLs lest be ahould evade 
her. " What's your true opinion of my mistress ?'* 

" I don't know ; I haven't got one," replied Mr. Snow, too im- 
pulsively for anything but truth. " Sometimes I think she'LL get over 
this weakness and do well ; at others I am tempted to thhik-«H3om^ 
thing else. Take as much care as you can of her?'* 

He shook his coat free and started off, running as before. Margety 
continued her way, which led her past the turning to th^ railwi^" 
station. She cast an eye on the passengers coming from the train— 
who had not joined in the speed adopted by Mr. Snow — ^and in the 
last of them saw lier master, Mr. George Godolphin. 

Margery halted and rubbed her eyes, and almost wondered whetber 
it was a vision. Her mind had been buried in the question^ sliould she^ 
or should she not, telegraph for him ; and there he was, before her 
view. Gay, handsome George ! with his ever-distinguished entourage 
(I don't know a better word in English) ; his bearing, his attire, m 
person so essentially the gentleman ; his pleasant &ce and his winniag 

That smile was directed to Margery as he came up« He bore in Ui 
hand a small basket of wicker-work, its projecting top covered with 
delicate tissue paper. But for the bent of Margery's thoi^hts at ib* 
time, she would not have been particularly surprised at the sight of 
him, for Mr. George*s visits to Prior's Ash were generally imprompl^ 
onesy paid without warning. She met him rather eagerly : speaJi^ 
the impulse that had been in her mind — ^to send a message jfor him, os 
account of the state al his brother. 

"Is he worse?" asked George, eagerly. 

2^ Shadow ofAshhfdyat. 277 

*' If ever I saw death ^t ia a face, it^s writ in his, sir," returned 
Margery. *^ 

George hesitated a moment. '^ I think I will go up to Ashlydjat 
without loss of time thaa/' he said, turning back. But he stopped to 
give the basket into Margery's hands. 

" Ifc ia for your mistreas^ Margery. How is she?'* 

" SJie'^ nothing to boast of," replied Margery, in a tone and with a 
stress that might hare awakened George's suspicions, had any fears 
with reference to his wife's state yet penetrated his mind. But they 
had not. " I wish I could see her get a little bit o' life into her, ana 
then the health might be the next thing to come," concluded 

'' Tell her I shall soon be home." And George Godolphin proceeded 
to Ashlydyat. 

It may be that he had not the faculty of distinguishing the different 
indications that a countenance gives forth, or it may be that to find his 
brother sitting in the porch disarmed his doubts, but certainly George 
saw no cause to endorse the fears expressed by Marg^. She had 
entered into no details, and George had pictured in his own mind 
Thomas as in bed. To see him therefore sitting out of doors, quietly 
reading, certainly lulled all George's present fears. 

Not but that the ravages in the worn form, the grey look in the pale 
face, struck him as it was lifted to his ; struck him almost with awe. 
!For a few minutes their hands were locked together in siLence. 
Generous Thomas Godolphin ! never since the proceedings had termi- 
nated, the daily details were over, had he breathed a word of the 
bankruptcy and its unhappiness to George. 

'' George, I am glad to see you. I have been wishing for you all 
day. I l£ink you must have been sent on purpose." 

" Margery sent me. I met her as I was coming fi?om the train." 

It was not to Ma/rgery that Thomas Godolphin had alluded — but he 
let it pass. " Sent on purpose," he repeated, aloud. " George, I 
think the end is very near." 

*' But you are surely better ?" returned George, speaking in his im- 
pulse. '* Unless you were better would you be sitting here ?" 

" Do you remember, George, my mother sat here in the afternoon 
cf the day she died ? A feeling came over me to-day that I should 
•njoy a brqath of the open air, but it was iK)t until after they had 
brought my chair out and I was installed in it that I thought of my 
mothw. It struck me as being a curious coincidence; almost an 
omen. Margery recollected the circumstance, and spoke of it." 

The words imparted a strange sensation to George, a shivering 
dread. '' Are you in much pain, Thomas ?" he asked. 

'* Kot mueh ; a little, at times ; bat the great agony that used t» 
eome upou me has quite passed. As it did with my mother, you 

Could George Godolphin help the feeling of bitter contrition thai; 
came over him P He had been less than man, lower tlnm human, had 
he helped it. Perhaps the full self-reproach of his conduct never 
came home to him as it came now. With aU his faults, his lightness, 
he loved his brother : and it seemed that it was he — he — ^whe had 

278 The Shadow of Ashlydyta, 

made the face wan, the hair grey, who had broken the already suffi- 
ciently stricken heart, and had sent him to his grave Before Ms time. 

" It is my fault," he spoke in his emotion. " But for me, Thomas, 
you might have been with us, at any rate another year or two. The 
trouble has told upon you.*' 

" Yes, it has told upon me," Thomas quietly answered. There was 
nothing else that he could answer. 

"Don't think of it, Thomas," was the imploring prayer. "It 
cannot be helped now." 

" No, it cannot be helped," Thomas rejoined. But he did not add 
that, even now, it was disturbing his death-bed. " George," he said, 
taking his brother's hands, "but that it seems so great an impyo^ 
bability, I would ask you to repay to our poor neighbours and friends 
what they have lost, should it ever be in your power. Who knowB 
but you may be rich some time ? You are young and capable, and 
the world is before you. If so, think of them: it is my last inquest 
to you." 

" It would be my own vrish to do it," gravely answered Geoi^ 
" But do not think of it, Thomas ; do not let it trouble you.^^ 

" It does not trouble me much now. The thought of the wrong 
inflicted on them is ever present to me, but I am content to leave 
that, and all else, in the care of the all-potent, ever-merciful God. 
He can recompense better than I could, even had I my energies and 
life left to me." 

There was a pause. George loosed his brother's hands and took 
the seat on the bench, where Margery had sat ; the vei^ seat where 
he had once sat with his two sticks, in his weakness, years before, 
when the stranger, Mr. Appleby, came up and inquired for Mr. Verrall. 
Why or wherefore it should have come, George could not tell, but 
that day flashed over his memory now. Oh, the bitter rememibranoe! 
He had been a lightsome man then, without care, free from that de- 
pressing incubus that must, or that ought to, weigh down the sornl— 
cruel wrong inflicted on his fellow-toilers in the great journey of life. 
And now ? He had brought the evil of poverty upon himself,' the 
taint of disgrace upon his name ; he had driven his sisters from their 
home ; had sent that fair and proud inheritance of the Godolphiim, 
Ashlydyat, into the barter market ; and had hastened the passage of 
his brother to the grave. Ay ! dash your bright hair from your brow 
as you will, George Godolphin! — pass your cambric handkerchief 
over your heated face! — you cannot dash away the remembrance. 
You have done all this, and the consciousness is very present to you 

Thomas Godolphin interrupted his reflections, bending towards 
George his wasted features. " George, what are your prospects ?" 

" I have tried to get into something or other in London, but my 
trying has been useless. All the places that are worth having are so 
snapped up. I have been ofiered something in Calcutta, and I Aiok 
I shall accept it. If I find that Maria has no objection to go out, I 
shall : I came down to-day to talk it over with her." 

" Is it through Lord Averil ?" 

" Yes. ' He wrote to me yesterday morning before he went to 

2%« Shadow of Ashlydyat 279. 

diupcb with Cecil. I got the letter by the evening njail, ^nd came off 
this momingi'*. ' 

. "And what is jihe appointment ? Is it in the civil service ?'* 

^Nothing sagraad: — in: sound, at any rate. It's only mercantile. 
The situation is at an indigo merchant's, or planter's ; I am not sure: 
which. But it'fl & good appointment; one that a gentleman may 
accept ; and the pay is liberal. Lord Averil urges it upon me — these 
merchants, they are brothers, are friends of his. If I decline it, he 
will try for a civil appointment for me, but to obtain one might take 
ftfcoftsidwable tiine: and there might be other difficulties." 

}-Xm*\ said TbomaSj.phoj^tly., "By what little I can judge, this 
appiearsto la^ to be eligible, ju^t wh^t^ will suit you." . 
j; *<*.Ittiink«so-,.:If. I accept it, I shall have to start with the new 
year» I sm^ the agents of this house ij;i to\j^n, this morning, and they 
jbdil me;it id qiuite a .first jclas^ a{)pointment for a mercantile one. I 
hope. Mw* wjU aot difflifce to go." 

They sat there conversing until the sun had set. George pointed! 
o^t'toohis.brotj^i^r'jsiixotice that the air was getting cold^ but Thomas 
only smiled .in JUJ^w^r : i<i was,not the night; air, hot or cold, that could 
aiiy^loQ^eraff^Clt. Thomas .G-odolphin, But he said that he might as 
wdl gQ;in,,an4 -toofctQeorge's arm to help his feeble steps. 

" home ?" inquired Q-eorge, finding the usual sitting- 
.Sfoom'ieaipty. '',r, ? }.,.., ,...,. 

" They are at Lady Godolphin's," replied Thomas, alluding to his 
lUisters^Ti; ".Ejefii^^^goed. there for good next week, and certain arrange- 
ivientits J»aTe>%a be/inade^sQ they walked over this afternoon just before 
y©ifcdinie(n]j."<> ,. . 

' : ^ Cre6rgei fl^ot iawu. The finding his sisters absent was a reliief : since 
the unhappy ^^plosion^, George had always felt as a guilty schoolboy in 
tfaeipreaenceof Jianet,. He remained a short while, and then rose to 
di^parti ** PU <K>me up and see you, in the morning, Thomas." 

Was theire: any prevision of what the night would bring forth on the 
Idind of Thomas, Gpdolphin ? It might be^ He entwined in his the 
hands hejd out to him. 

V. *^Oodibl^BS y<>u, George! God bless you, and keep you always!" 
And a- lump^ Apt tat all. familiar to George Godolphin's throat, rose in 
^it as he ^ent out from the presence of his brother. 

•' " ' ' ' ■ . j ■ 1 '■■•";■.<.' 1 ' 1 

, II. 

, I i ' > ! ' t-i 


:It waapne) of those charmingly clear nights that bring a sensation 
of pleasure to the senses. Daylight could not be said to have quite 
faded, but the moon was up, its rays shining brighter and brighter with 
every departing jojoment. of day. As George passed Lady Godolphin's 
Folly,? Janet was coming from it. 

• He ^epuld not avoid her. I don't say he wished to do it, but he couU 
not if he had wished; it. < They stood talking together for some time ; 
on Thomas's state; on this Calcutta prospect of George's, for Janet 
had heard something of it from Lord Averil, and she questioned him 

280 The Shadow cf Ashlydyai. 

closely ; on other Erabjects. It was growing quite nigbt when Janet 
made a movement homewards, and George could do no less than 
attend her. 

" I thought Bessy was with you," he r^narked, as they walked 

" She is remaining an hour or two longer with Lady Q-odolphin ; but 
it was time I came home to Thomas, When do you say you must sail, 
George ?" 

" The beginning of the year. My salary will commence with the 
first of January, and I ought to be off that day. I don*t know whether 
that will give Maria suf&cient time for preparation.'* 

" Sufficient time !*' repeated Miss Gx)dolphin. " Will sh© be wanting 
to take out a ship's' cargo ? I should thii^ she might be ready in a 
tithe of it. Shall you take the child ?" 

" Oh yes," he hastily answered ; " I could not go without the child. 
And I am sure Maria would not consent to be separated from her. I 
hope Maria will not object id going on her own score." 

" Nonsense !" returned Janet. *' She vrill have the sense to see that 
it is a remarkable piece of g;ood fortune, far better than you had any 
right to expect. Let me recommend you to put by half the salarj, 
George. It is a very handsome one, and you may do it if you wifl. 
Take a lesson from the past." 

" Yes," replied George, with a twitch of conscience. " I wonder if 
the climate will try Maria ?" ^ 

" I judge that the change will be good for her in all ways," said 
Janet, emphatically. " Depend upon it she will only be too thankful 
to turn her back on Prior's Ash. She'll not get strong as long as she 
stops in it, or so long as your prospects are uncertain, doing nothing 
as you are now, I can't make out, for my part, how you live." 

" You might easily guess that I have been helped a little, Janet." 

" Ey one that I would not be helped by if I were starving," severely 
rejoined Janet. " You allude, I presume, to Mr. Verrall ?" 

George did allude to Mr. VerraU ; but he avoided a direct answer. 
" All that I borrow I shall return," he said, " as soon as it is in my 
power to do so. It is not much : and it is given and received as a loan 
only. What do you think of Thomas ?" he asked, willing to change^ 
the subject. 

" I think " Janet stopped. Her voice died away into an awe- 
struck whisper, and finally ceased. They had taken the path home 
round by the ash-trees. The Dark Plain lay stretched before them, 
clear and shadowy (but that must seem a contradiction) in the moon- 
light. In the brightest night the gorse-bushes, with their shade, gave 
the place a shadowy weird-like appearance, but never had the moon- 
light on the plain been clearer, whiter, brighter than it was now. And 
the Shadow ? 

The ominous Shadow of Ashly dyat lay there : the Shadow which had 
clung to the fortunes of the Godolphins, as tradition said, in past 
aees ; which had certainly followed the present race. But the dark 
blackness that had characterised it was unobservable now : the Shadour 
was undoubtedly there, but had eyes been looking on it, less accus- 
tomed to its form than were Miss Godolphin's, they might have Med 

The Shadow of Ashlydyai, 281 

to make out distinctly its outlines. It was of a light, faint hue ; more 
as the shadow of the Shadow, if I may so express it. 

" George ! do you notice ?" she breathed. 

" I see it," be answered. 

" But do you notice its peculiarity — its faint appearance ? I should 
say — I should say tbat it is indeed going from us ; that it must be 
about the last time it will follow the Godolphins. With the wresting 
from them of Ashlydyat the curse was to spend itself." 

She had sat down on the bench underneath the ash- trees, and was 
speaking in a low, dreamy tone : but George heard every word, and 
the topic was not particularly palatable to him. He could not but re- 
member that it was he and no other who had been the cause of the 
wresting from them of Ashlydyat. 

" Your brother will not be here long," murmured Janet. ** That's 
the warning for the last chief of the Godolphins." 

" Oh, Janet ! I wish you were not so superstitious ! Of course we 
know — it is patent to us ill — ^that Thomas cannot last long : a few 
days, a few hours even, may close his life. "Why should you connect 
with him that wretched Shadow ?" 

" I know what I know, and I have seen what I have seen,'* was the 
reply of Janet, spoken slowly ; nay, solemnly. " It is no wonder that 
you wish to ignore it, to affect to disbelieve in it : but you can do 
neither the one nor the other, George Gt)dolphin." 

George gave no answering argument. It may be that he felfc he had 
forfeited the right to argue with Janet. She again broke the silence. 

" I have watched and watched ; but never once, since the day that 
those horrible misfortunes fell, has«that Shadow appeared. I thought 
it had gone for good ; I thought that our ruin, that the passing of 
Ashlydyat into the possession of strangers, was the working out of the 
curse. But it seems it has come again ; for the last, final time, as I 
believe. And it is but in accordance with the past, that the type of 
the curse should come to shadow forth the death of the last Godol- 

" Ton are complimentary to me, Janet," cried George, good 
humouredly. " When poor Thomas shall have gone, I shall be here 
still, the last of the Godolphins." 

" You /" returned Janet, and her tone of scOTuful contempt^ un- 
conscious as she might herself be of it, brought a sting to George's 
mind, a flush to his brow. ** You might be worthy of the name of 
Godolphin once, laddie, but that's over. The last true Godolphin dies 
out with Thomas." 

** How long are you going to sit here ?" asked George, after a time, 
as she gave no signs of moving. 

"You need not wait," returned Janet. "I am at home now, as 
may be said. Don't stay, George : I would rather you did pot : your 
wife must be expecting you." 

Glad enough to be released, George went on his way, and Janet sat 
on, alone. With that Shadow before her — though no longer a dark 
one — it was impossible but that her reflections should be turned back 
on the unhappy past. She lost herself in a maze of perplexity — as all 
must do, whose thoughts roam to things " beyond their ken."* Why 

282 Tlie Shadow ofAsMydyat. 

should this fate have overtaken the Godolphin family — ^th'e precise fate 
predicted for it ages ago ? Why should that strange and never*to-be-. 
accounted-for Shadow appear on the eve of evil ? Chuld they not "have 
gone from their fate ? — ^not have escaped it by any means ? It seemed 
out a trifling thing to do for George GFodolphin, to keep in the right 
path, instead of lapsing to the wrong one : it seemed a more trifling 
thiug still for Sir George Godolphin to do — to quit his inheritance^ 
Ashlydyat, for the Folly, yet upon that pivot events seemed to have 
turned. As it had been foretold (so ran the prediction) ages before: 
"When the chief of Ashlydyat should quit Ashlydyat, the ruin of the 
Godolphins would be near. And it had proved so. " Eh me !'* wailed 
out Janet, in her sore anguish, " we are blaming George for it all, but 
perhaps the lad could not go against the fate. Who knows P" 

Who knew, indeed ! Let us look back to some of the ruin we have 
witnessed ; and marvel, as Janet Godolphin did, whether those whom 
we blame as its cause, could have " gone against their fate." Them 
are mysteries in this world which we canndt solve : we may lose our- 
selves as we will in their depths — we may cast ridicule to them, or 
pass them over with a light laugh of irony — we may talk, in our poor 
inflated wisdom, of their being amenable to common laws, to be ac- 
counted for by ordinary rules of science, — but we can never solve 
them ; never fathom them, until Time shall be no more. 

A great deal of this story. The Shadow of Ashlydyat, is a perfectly 
true one ; it is but the recital of a drama of real life. And the super- 
stition that encompasses it P ten thousand inquisitive tongues will ask. 
Tes, and the superstition. There are things, as I have just said, which 
can neither be explained nor accounted for : they are marvels, mysteries,, 
and so they must remain. Many a family has its supernatural skeleton,, 
religiously believed in ; many a house has its one dread comer which 
has never been fully unclosed to the bright light of day. Say what 
men will to the contrary, there is a tendency in the human mind to 
allow the in-creeping of superstition. We cannot shut our eyes to 
things that occur within their view, although we may be, and always, 
shall be, utterly unable to explain them ; what they are, where they 
spring from, why they come. If I were to tell you that I believe there 
are such things as omens, warnings, which come to us — though seldom 
are they sufficiently marked at the time to be attended to — ^I should 
be set down as a visionary day-dreamer. I am nothing of the sort : I 
have my share of plain common sense, I pass my time in working, not 
in dreaming : I never had the gratification of seeing a ghost yet, and 
I wish I was as sure of a thousand pounds cadeau coming to me. 
this moment, as I am that I never shall see one ; I have not been 
taken into favour by the spirits, have never been promoted to so much, 
as half a message from them — and never expect to be. But some 
curious incidents have forced themselves on my life's experience, 
causing m*e to echo as a question the assertion of the Prince, of 
Denmark:— Are there more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt 
of in our philosophy P 

Janet Godolphin rose with a deep sigh and her weight of care. She 
kept her head turned to the Shadow until she had passed from its 
view, and then continued her way to the house, murmuring, " It's but. 

Uie Shadow ofAshlydyat 283 

a little misfortune ; it's but a little misfortune : the shade is not much 
darker than the moonlight itself.'* 

Thomas was in his arm-chair, bending forward towards the fire, as 
she entered. His face would have been utterly colourless, save for 
the bluish tinge which had settled there, a tinge distinguishable even 
in the red blaze. Janet, keen-sighted as Margery, thought the hue 
had grown more ominous since she quitted him in the afternoon. 

'' Have you come back alone ?" asked Thomas, turning towards 

George accompanied me as far as the ash-trees : I met him. Bessy 
is staying on for an hour with Lady Godolphin. Have you had your 
medicine, Thomas ?" 


Janet drew a chair near to^ him and sat down, glancing almost 
stealthily at him. When this ominous look appears on the human 
face, we do not like to gaze into it too boldly, lest its owner, so soon 
to be called away, may read the fiat in our own dread countenance. 
Janet need not have feared its effect, had he done so, on Thomas Go- 

" It is a fine night," he observed. 

" It is," replied Janet. " Thomas," dropping her voice, " the 
Shadow is abroad." 

" Ah !" 

The response was spoken in no tone of dread, of dismay j but calmly, 
pleasantly, with a smile upon his lips. 

" It has changed its colour," continued Janet, " and may be called 
grey now instead of black. I thought it had left us for good, Thomas : 
I suppose it had to come once more." 

" If it cared to keep up its character for consistency," he said, his 
voice a jesting one. " If it has been the advance herald of the death 
of other Godolphins, why should it not herald in mine P" 

" I did not think to hear you joke about the Shadow," observed 
Janet, after a pause of vexation. 

" Nay, there's no harm done. I have never understood it, you 
know, Janet ; none of us have : so little have we understood, that we 
have not known whether to believe or disbelieve. A short while, 
Janet, and things may be made plainer to me." 

" How are you feefing to-night ?" somewhat abruptly asked Janet. 

" Never better of late days. It seems as if ease both of mind and 
body had come to me. I think," he added, after a few moments' re* 
flection, " that what George tells me of a prospect opening for him 
has imparted this sense of ease. I have thought of him a ^eat deal, 
Janet, of his wife and child : of what would become of hun and of 

" And it has been troubling you, I conclude !" remarked Jfl,net, with 
a touch of her old severe accent. ** He is not worth it, Thomas." 

"May God help him on now!" murmured Thomas Godolphin. 
" He may live yet to be a comfort to his family ; to repair to others 
some of the injury he has caused. Oh Janet ! I am ready to go." 

Janet turned her eyes from the fire that the tears rising in them 
might not be seen to glisten. " The Shadow was very light, Thomas," 

Jttfy_VOL. CXXVm. NO. DXI. u 

284 The Shadow of Axhlyifyai. 

she repeated. ^' Whatever it maj herald forth, will not be .much of a 

"A miafortime!«-4o be taken to my test! — ^tothe good Ctod who 
has BO loved ^ttid kept me here ! A few minutes before jrou came 10, 
I fell into a doze, and I dreamt I saw Jesiu Chriflt standing there, hj 
the window, waiting lor me. He had his hand stretchiBd ^ut to me 
with a smile. So vivid had been the impreaaion, that when I woke I 
thought it was reality, and I got up and was hastening toward ^e 
window before I recollected myself. Death a misfortune ! No, Janet; 
not for me.'' 

Janet rang the bell for lights to be brought in; Thomas, his elbdv 
resting on the arm of the chair, bent his head upon his band, >aid be- 
came lost in the imagination of glories that might so soon open to 
him. Bright forms were flitting ai^ound a throne of wondroufrbi^titj^ 
golden harps in their hands ; and in one of them, her haip idle^ bet 
radiant face turned as if watching for one who might be coming, lis 
seemed to recognise EtheL 

A misfortune for the good to die ! No, no. 


■■.'■•' - ■ • ■ ' 


Geobgb GonoiPHiN sat with his wife and child. The tooih was 
bright with light and fire, and George's spirits were bright in accord- 
ance with it. He had been enlarging upon the prospeet offered to 
him, describing a life in India in vivid colours ; had drawn some imsr 
ginative pen*and-ink sketches of Miss Meta on a camp's back ; in S 
gorgeous palanquin ; in an open terrace-gallery being fanned by about 
fifty slaves, the young lady herself looking on in a high state of ex- 
citement, her eyes sparkling, her chee^ burning. Maria seemed td 
be partaking of the .general hilaxitf ; whether she was really better, 
or the unexpected return of her husband had infused into hjsr artiEcifll 
strength, unwonted excitement, certain it is that she was not looking 
very ill that night : her cheeks had borrowed some of Meta's coioni^ 
and her lips were parted with a smile at George's words, or Bib Mek's 
ecstasies. The cluld's tongue was never still ; it was papa this, paps 
the other, incessantly. Margery felt rather cross, and when sheeame 
into add some dish to the substantial tea she had prepared for her 
master, told him she hoped he-d not be for carrying Miss Meta out U^ 
them wretched foreign places that was only good for convicts. Li^i 
and Botany £ay ranked precisely alike in the mind of Margerys. 

But the tea was done with aim removed, and the evening had gons 
on, and Margery had come again to escort Miss Meta to bed. Mias 
Meta was not in a hursry to be escorted. Her nimble feet were flying 
everywhere: from papa at the table, to mamma who sat on the 80& 
near the ;fire; from mamma to Margery, standing silent and grim, 
scarcely deigning to look at the pen-and-ink sketches that Meta ex«^ 
hibited to her. 

"I don't see no sense in 'em, for my part," slightingly spoke 
Margery, regarding with dubious eyes one somewhat indistinct repre- 

The Shadow ofABklydyat. 285 

Bentation held up to her. '^ Them things hain't like Ohristiaa nmmals. 
A eiaphont, d'y^iCaUritf Whioh is i1^ headiasKi -which is its tail?** 

Meta whisked off to hetr.pap^^ ^lephaat in haQ4« ^ Bapa, which i^ 
its head aiid which is its t^U?*^, :':.,!. ; 

; "That's its tin," said Gheoi^'e. ^iTou'Jl kttow its head firom its 
tail when YOU coipe jto ride one, Margetyi," cried he^ throwing his 
I^nigtiing glance at th^ wcHnaq* . 

. " Me ride a elephant I ^oQ ^oaoiint upon one o' i;hem beasts !" Tvas 
the indignant response. " I*d like to see myself at it J It might be 
ji^at as weUj, air, ,if yon didn't 'talk about ^em* to the child : I shall 
hi^TO her stank out of he^ sleep Bcreaoaing to*night^ fancying that a 
score of 'em's eating h^ up; t' - - . 

jGreprge iaiOghed. , , 3£eWs h^jr brain was at work; very busy, very 
Woesome ju«t then. r ; • • 

J" Papa, do we^ haye swings i^ I^dia ?^ 

"Lots of them," responded George. . ; • '. 

" Do they go up to the treeT? ' Are tbey as good as tibe one Mrs. 
'Pain had made for me at the Folly?" 

" Ten times better than that," said George, slightingly. " That 
was a muff of a swing, compared t^ Wrhat the others will be." 

Meta considered. " You didn't see it, papa. It went up — ^up — 
oh, ever so higli'.*' ' ' ' " ' 

." Bid it," sftid George. "We'll; send /the ^ythers higher.'* 

"Who'll swing me?" continued Meta* ^ Mrs; Pain? «he had 
used to Bwing me before. Will she go to India withlus ?** 

" Not she^" said George. " What should she go for? liook here. 
Here's Meta on an elephant, inindr Margery on another, in attendance 

.He had been mischievousljy sketching it off: Meta on Wie elephant, 
sitting at her< Otfse, her dainty little legs astride, boy fieishion, wUfi 
rather a pretty eight : but pidK>r Margery grasping hold of the ele*' 
phant's body and trunk, her faioe one picture of horror in her fear of 
faULng, and scHsae half-dozen natives propping her up on either side, 
w'^ only a ludicrous one. 

Margery looked daggers, but nothing could exceed the delight of 
Meta, "DsaWimamma upon one, papa; make her elephant along*^ 
side me." 

" Draw mamma upon one ?" repeated George. " I think we'll have 
Qt^mma in a palailquin; the elephants «hall be reserved for you and 

" Is she coirting to bed to-night, or isn't she ?" demanded Margery, 
in an uncommonly sharp tone, speaking for the benefit of the company 
generally, nbt to anybody in particular. 

^ Meta paid little attention ; George appeared to pay less. In taking 
hifi knife from hifl waistcoat- pocket to cut the pencU, preparatory to 
" drawing mamma and the palanquin," he ha^ppened to bring forth «' 
ring. Those quick little eyes saw it ; they saw mfost things. "That's 
ITncle Thomas's !" cried the child. 

In his somewhat hasty essay to return it to his pocket, G^eorge let 
the ring fall to the ground, and it rolled towards Margery. She picked 
it up, wonderingly — almost fearfully ; ehe had believed that Mr. Go- 


286 .77^ Shadow of Ashb/di/at. 

doIpMn would not part witti his signet-ring daring life: the rise 
whtcli ha .bad offered to the bankruptcy comtnusione^, and they, win 

eT;CTy to^.^J^'of respect, had retiimed to hiiii. "' ■ 

" Oh.'ftiastert Surely he is not dead T" 
„ , " Ji^A, !,", ^cl*oed Gflorge, .Ipoliing at her in aurppise'. ' ■" I left Mm 
better^^U^ usu^, ^Stargery, when I cam^ away." ' '■ . ; '■ 

Margery eaad no more. Meta ' waa 'hot s6 tibrupulousi ''"TJflde 
Thomas always haa that on his finger: he seals his'lettefs.trfllh it 
"WityiaTO you brought it away, papa?" - ' 

, ",Se ,^^(! PPti want it to seal letters ' With any 'IdnbeJ-,- Meta^" 
George answered, speakiig gravely now, and attoSin^Tier, gotm 
cvrla, " I, shall UB© it in future for aealiiig mme." ' ■' '' ' ■' 

, "iF'l¥)'U,w'Qai; it?"' asked Metd. "Tbu;,or jriji^eTHpiMWsP" ' 
, ."'i Bl)all— some jtiine. ' Bu£ Xi is ^uite titne Metft WHO) ita^^ed^ hdd 
Margery loots as if'she tli ought 'so. Th^re! .jost a'fdW of mkiuiiM'i 
g3»peSj and RWfly tp dream of elephants." ' "'— ' ■- " ','"' 

Some "fine white grapea were heaped up Qn a plate on'thetkhle: 
.tbcT weire what George had brought from Londcm foi? hjs wif&. ■ Se 
If^oke fipme off for Met a, and that spofled young dhmBCl clitoWd on 
ia» knee wnjle she devoiired them, chattering incfisSantlj;'' ' ■■ ""' 

'' Willtliere'te parrots in Ihdia'P 'Bed bneSfV' ■ '■' . ,* ■ ' ■ 
,.,".P)«i)tj. .E^d^nd green and blue and yellow," tetntneS CJ^rgti, 
.wh9,,wqB-r(ither magnificent in' his ^rofnlses. " ^ere'll bo t^6hk^ 
"miwell-rras 'Margerji''it'fond of them."' ■'' ■■---"_ 

ilargerj flung hersplf off iu a temper. But the words had l)nMis!it 
a recollection in Meta : she scuffled up on her kfie^S, n^^iectingmr 
grnpeB, gazing at her papa in cooatemation. ',' ' 

".Uncle EegiualJ was to bring me home soinp liibtlkieys ^And'some 
parrotaaiid a Chinese dog that won't bite :')ioV'6h'all I hKfie'tbeiil, 

Sapa^ if I'm gone to Cal— what is it P" Shb e|)oke bett^ thra Afe 
id, and could sound the " th" now ; but the; iliime of the Hittdoabm 
.pf^idency WOB difiicult to be remerabered, ; ■' 

,,,,,'VCaJcLitta. We'll write word to Begy's sjiip to'copiQTbund'tb^ 
t^d leave them," replied ready George. _^ ' ' ■ ■, ■ ■ 

.,.,,It satisfied the child. She finished her gtapes, ' and' theft Qefttlgs 
took her in hie arms to Maria to be kissed, and afterww-da put hte 
down outside the door to offended Margery, aftbr Mssipg lovingly wt 
pretty lips and her golden curls. ' ■ ■ ' '.' ■ 

Hia manner had changed when he returned. He' stood at the'&re. 
near Maria, grave and earnest, and began talking fnorfe setibu41y'& 
her. oa.tbifl new project than he bad done ih'''tne' pt^renc^ df tjie 

.ai^ ■' ■ ■■■ ■ 




imJ,i^Blio\il4 do'-vfront'iiierartbreftiseit: diilOtybtf, Maria;? 
-,9ffer th^ is pot often i^e^witH."' ,"' ' i ■■.■■'-■■ . 

\, I think yoii' would'dii' wroiig to ^efnpe % It h ikt 'betbtfttai 

;, : .^lA'^ima^mV ready fe, titers ly 
.,,," J — 1 fiou^d ,oe i;eady, of Cpujse^ »} 
:*B0f.,^h??i^«^r- — "■ ., , '..':.:/ i.'!' ...^ .... 
■'■-■iSPfi-'^W^ 1^9 (i|,finalj.Btop.; "Ge6i«is'r66Md iit'tiftr 
addition io h'er hesitation, ne det^^ted co'nstdeniDl^'^ili 

7%e Shadow ofAthlydyat. 287 

She stood up by him and leaned her acm on the mantelpiece. She 
Btrove to speak quietly, ip. choke down tb? retellioi^a risipg in Tier 
throat : her breath went ai^d .cani^,, nef bosom w^s hMyiri^: " Oerirge, 
I am not sure whether I abail be,able"tojucidertaketli6 yoyage.| Jatn 
not Bnie that I^5l^ftU,ljve, to go," ,•■,;.,,. ,, i ,' ,1 

Did hiB heart "beat-a ahft^e ^uicijec.P iHe Iqoked^t.lier, inot'0^ inl sur- 
prise -Htill than in^qy oth^r |e§(ij(g,'. 5^ h^^not.iiJt^'i^W realised 
Wiisr&ijit.suggestipa,«^f^e„fu,t^-,|i _,,: ;, ,, -, V ,( ,',,,,i,'. '^ ' 

" My darlmg, what do you me'^n?" '.„ ]!.. , ' ... ' '^, ' '' ''' ' ,'' ' 
■ ,H^/had,^pfeped,.hia(ttrm.ff(Lifl^'fie,r'-w«ialf" an'ii'^'.cl'i^w^'li^'t^'Sifi 
l^ftj^t ■h^ej;,,b^^fyj,,uppu,,hi^',8^9ul4er, ,and tl^"teai^'b^iin t 
trickle downiier wast^^^ch^PW'.,,' , i ./...I'.i \. ,' ,. it. I'.^'r .> "' 

"I eaojiotg 

thftti,j;ahaEjifiY,?r|,b,„. ,. , 

have thought it some time, ,, 1 . j ■ 'i -. 1 

„'^fl:oF d|?,you,^ei ?," he ^^p^lfe^lwa^.'li^eiic^':^!!;^ Ma^a,«^ ■ 

but I 

"Maria," he s^id, liis voice quite trembling; witliitg tendetnesa, 
"sliall I tellyou wiiatitia? Tlie woEry of the' past summer baa hnd a 
had uffBctjUpou yoii.aud brought you mta this low,'weitk state. ".Mi-.. 
Suow ia riglit,: it is n^rpusnesa : and j-ou iimat have tbangQ of'^eeEe 
ere you can recover, Is he attending you ?" ' ' ' 

, " He, calls every other day or so, and ho aeuda me medicine or.diffc- 
rent kinds ; jtouie^, I fancy. 1 wish I could get stroos^! 1 might — 
perhaps—get, a little better, that is, I migbt feel a trifle bettor.'if I 
were not always so entirely a.l,one., I wiali," she moro timidly addfedi 
" that you could be with me more than you are." ■ .' 

. ,"Tou cannot wish, :^t ?o. heartily aa I," returned f^eorgc.^ " A^littte 
while, my darling, afad thiuLja. will be bright agafu. Thave,'been 
earnestly and .conataOitly seeking, for Bom-^thmg to do in London, ,aiid 
was obliged to^re." JJojv'tiiat I baye Jhia plrice given me, I itiuat 
bo there still chiefly until we sail,' iij a king ray prenarationa'. You ffljii 

1 you like, until wo do go, 

added, " if TOU would 

. rather be there than here., I, can changei my bachelor lodgi 
get a place large enough for you and lifeta.'' ' , _ 

SUo felt that shs was not equal to the removal, and ahe felt tliat ijf 
she really were to leave Europe she moat roralilo thia abort intftf- 
venicg time near hec father and mother. But — uven aa she thought 
it — the conviction came upon her, firm and strong, that she never 
should leave it; should not live to leave it. G-corge'a voice, efl^flp 
jmd hopeful, interrupted. 
"WeshaUb ■ 

li6al about^heS" irwouTf Ea'fl' br^'''f^iJ'h^i^So'^'Wr, , 
Jand, and, quite Jj^ea^; it %a carry pff Meta from her. PS^ntftirf'W^ K«d 
better not at)»lnp^.tq,ln|^^^flce1ier,■t^th^'*ay,'Iitult T^t'ttie decision 
rert entirely with her,"' " .■■->.<..■■ }■■■.-' ,,..■■-. 

, interrupted. ' -i ; . , 1 i ■ i i«iB>Ji£?/aofi'?'ia,Jwiifti MaiJia:'ii?itli rae ilfl'bffuii^ 
i Sd^sores; Is {o¥My^Jm!i'fk(i'dy'VhA*'((;t6 be 
b? Itwourfha#b.^'''&^iJ'h^-fe'^ari^WtoUew 

288 The iShadow of Aslilpdyat. 

" She will never face the live elephantB," said Maria, her lipB mailing 
at the joke, aa she endeavoured tol>e gay and }iopeful as George ma. 
But the efibrt utterly failed. A vision came over herof .George tltsre 
alone; herBelf in the cold grave, whither she Relieved she w^ auielj'. 
hastening; Meta — ay, what of Meta ? 

" Oh, George! if I might tiiE get strong! if Imight^t lite ti> 
go [" she cried, in a wail of aeony. , 

" Husb, hush ! Maria, husu ! , I must not acold you ; but indeed it 
is not right to give way to these low spirits. That of itself will keep 
you bact. Shall I take you up to town with me now, to-morrow, 
jnst for a week's change ? I know it would partially bring yon. 
round, and we'd make shift in my rooms for, the time. Margery will 
take care of Meia here." 

She knew how worse than useless was the tlionght of atteroptuig 
it; she saw thst George could not be brought to understand her ei- 
oessive weakness. A faint hope came across her that, now that the 
mcMtdnty of bis future proapects was removed, she might grow 
better. That uncertainty had been distressing her aick bearf for 
^months. , ... ,.■!.,, |/ i, -r J v •■•■" 

She subdued her emotion and sat clovn M the ehair QUiwy,' f^tjinSi 
that she was not strong enough to go lipwith bimtthutimeiiitwoiudi 
be a change iu one sense for her, she added, the thinkjjQg at^ailft, 
life; and then she began to talk of other thingp., ..., , ,., 

■" Did you sec Kegmaldlefore.jhe sailed ?".^ ^1 ,',.' ^ .....■; 

* N"ot immecliatoly before itj I think.^' V ,,■ ,g 

" You are aware that be has gone, a^jComnoa^eamHi.". / 

" Tes. By the wajr, there's no knowing, vii»t I niay be iifala toda; 
for Begy out there. And for Isaac too, perhaps. Once I aipc iji i^ 
good poaitioQ I shall be able to assist them — and .I'll do it., ^fiSf 
hates the sea; I'll'get him' Bomelhing more to hit taste jn Galcn^W-".; 

Maria's face flushed with hope, and sh^/islaaped ber nery'ou^ aAn^ 
together. "If you could, George I how th^ik&l I 'sboold {b^L Jti 
think of poor Begy and his bard life night and. day," , ,, ■ ' !■ ^\j 

" 'Whicb is not good for ybii' by any, means, you^^ig }a4y* I W% 
you'd get out of that babitol thinking, uid, letting atjouGot^^G&i.l^I* 
bas'beenjustgoor Thomas's rawit." , , ,, ^. , ■ „; ,■]. ■ .ji.-j -^ 

She answered by a faint smile. "Has Thomaff given you Km npgjf^ 
ate Mkcd. 

" He gave it me this afternoon," replied G«orge, taking it fi.-om.hilP 
pocket. It was a ring ^vitli a bright green atone, on wliicli was eqn 
graved the arms of the Godolphius. Sir George had worn, it alwi^fn 
and it came to Thomas at his death : now it had come to George, . „|a 

" Tou do not wear it, George." ... (,j 

_ " Kot yet. I cannot bear to put it on my finger while VhonMc 
lives. In point of fact, I have no right to do so— at least, to use t^: 
signet : it pertains eacluaively to the Ijead of the Godolphins." .,,;,,! 
" Do yoa see Mrs. Pain often?" Maria preaently said, with apRhj; 
rent indifference. But George little knew the fLotterIng emotion iflWJ 
bad been working within, or the efi'ort it bad taken to subdue it aft- 
the question could be put. , .,.,;[ 

"I see her aqmetiin?8,; ifoLoftpn,^' giift.get8,mp,tftij^wi;tt|,hi^W 
the I'ark now and.^E^;^,, ,^_;^,_, ,,,| , ,_,,„^,_ ,, ,^ ^^,,_ ^ . .^-„„,y,j taai--^ 

TKe Suidow ofAsklydyat. 38^ 

" Doea eLe intend to continue to reaiJe witt tie VerraDs P 

" I roppose eo. I have not heard her mention anything aboiji it" 

" George, I have often wondered where Mrs. Faints inoney comes 
from," Maria reaomed, in a dreamy ^^one^ " It wfts h^ in the old 
days, you know, that the report of he? having thuiiytlioiisaiwfponnda' 
fortune was fidsB ; that she had" none " 

" I don't believe she had a penny," retarnedI'.Q«OPgek '^Aa toiher 
income, I fhncy it is driwn from Verrall. Mrs. Spain's finq^aad wa» 
conaected in some bnainesa way with Verral], ajiS periyips fhe still 
Ijenefits. I kno* nothing whatever, but I have often thought it muA 
be So/ Hark! Listen!" . 

G-eorgB raised his hand aa he abruptly Bpofee, for a distant sound 
had broken luion bis ear. Springing to the window he threw it opm. 
He dfeatt-bell of AD Souk' was booming out over Prior's Ash. 

Before ft Woi^Tvas spoken by him ortyhiawife; before George 
ednld still the emotion that was thumping at hia heart, Margery came 
ia with a seared face : in her flurry, her sudden grief, she addressed 
him as she Sad been accustomed to address him in liia boyliooi). 

" So yon bear it, Master George F That's the passiqg-biell.l ItJa 
fbrKm. There'ft'ttohody elae'withii tenmiTea that'^pV^'i^ 
have thfe bell'toHbi for'at nigh ten b'rfbck at niglit^ '^e m^ter of, 
Ashlydyafb gone.'"' 

She sst down onachaitjregBjdlesfl'ortheprefl^Oceitf'heT master ani 
nristreas, and flinging her Kproni oftr her face^ barst ipto' a pt^iyi rf 
Boba. * ,.'..,'. 

A voice in the passage ontstde amoSed'h^r, fpf'she, .racogniafld' 
it as jSkdey'S. Gteorgp opfened the roojn door, arid tt^ old inap. 
came in. -'■.■', ,-i 

"It is all over, sfr," he sttid, his manner ' stnjnge^ stffl, hi^^voiMfi 
TunntatEdtv calm and low, as is sometimes the ca« where ^nvotiOTi,i8 
atriven tObeauppresBed. "Mise Tailet bademe ebmeli«y{ta with tli^, 

tidiugs." ' ■■ ■-■ ■■ .,',:,;, 

Greorge's bearing *as 8uspiH<rariy'qiiifet top. "*It ft^- v^iypfl^pan, 
Beiley," h« preMntly reidined.' ■ ',' ■ '■■'■■-■■■' J^ ^ ^^^^ 

Mtum bad risen and Stood Vith due hand leaning tat t ae- iaWe, Bet' 
eyes strained<aBezky,her^hit«Ace tallied ';to,1i&,t{ai^^ne*^' 
moved. . i . 

"Very eudden, sir; and yet my niiatreas did not seem unprepared 
for it. He took his tea with her, and was so cheerful and well over it, 
that I declare I began'to hope he had taken a fresh turn. Soon after- 
wards Miss Bessy Came back, and I heard her laughing in the room aa 
she told tiem some story that had been related to her by Lady Godol- 
phin. Presently my miatreas called me in, to give me directions about 
a little matter shewantedjJone to-morrow, and while she was speak- 
ing to me, Misfl Bessy cried out. "We turned round and saw her 
leaning over my inaflter. He had slipped baclt in bis chair powerless, 
and I hastened to taise and support him. Death waa in his face, sir ; 
there l^as no mistaking it ; hut he was quite conscious, quite sensible, 
and smiled at US. *I must say farewell to you,' he said, and Miaa 
Bessy burst into a fit of sobs ; but my mistress kneeled io\m quietly 
before him, and took his hands in hers, and said, ' Thomas, is the 
moment come ?' ' Tea, it is come,' be answered, and he tried to look 

290 The Shadow of Ashlydyat 

round at Miss Bessy, who stood a little behind his chair. 'Don't 
grieve,' he said, ^ I am goin^ on first,' but she only sobbed the more. 
* Good-by, my dear ones,'* ne <ioiitiiiued;.*g6od4)y, Bexley; I shall 
wait for you all, as I know I am being waited for. Fear ?' he went 
on, for Miss Bessy sobbed out* sdmetbing that sounded like the word, 

> »i 

' fear, when I am going to God ! — when I saw Jesus— Jesus- 

'Bexlfey fkirly broke down with a great liurst, andKthe tedtoa Were 
roTlifl^' silently over Maria's cheeks. George whaled roUnd to'.tW '^ 
wi*tdoV attid ertjood there with his back to them. IVeeHently^ !fieilejr' 
mastifii^ himself and resumed : Margery had come f6rwaa:<d tfakn' tm- 
taftu6tt*terapriMifeottt before her eyes. ....;•- ."/t,/-: 

**It was the last word he spoke, * Jesns.' His voioe'ceasetily'W 
handsf ^(^11; and^he eyelids dropped. There was no stmggle ; iiidthii^ 
b^ ft long gentle bi^ath ^ and he died with the smilb txp^ hkt Mpsi't^ 

^^'Se had cause to ^raile," interjected Margel-y, the-wor^^^ufliig*- 
fromihei^ in jerks. ^ If ever a man has gone to his rest id beafrenitwi. 
Mri^Godbl^hitl. He had more than his share of scorrow* in -this woiUt'' 
aHd"G(id has took him to a better.'? . '.'* ^-^ ^.-mI 

^Eriftry feeiling in George^s heart echoed to the wopdsy-*i«verypula4' 
b^t ih wild iloiTow for the dea^ of his good brctthdr^^^enrety 6tiii|g» 
tb^i? r^moi^e leomld* bring pricked him witM the <eonseiou8nee£i'of :jnar(' 
own'shdre'in i|b.{ He thrust his bumixig face beyond the wtndowiiitftif 
the «ool night' j <hii» raised his eyeis to the blae canopy. of •he»TB&, <seileii0f^ 
a]|d fair i^ thO'inodnligbt, almost as^ if h^ fkvM in< imagiiiaiioiit rKhe^tB^ 
deemed soul winging its Eight thither. -He pressed his hftnds lipc^n^iti^ 
throbbiqg breast ' to still its emotion \ < but fbr th^ greattelK etxiercisei of >: 
seUickintrol he would have bu&st into sobs, as Bexley had < done ;^iitd1 
it: may be that he ^ he, careless: George Godolphin;: breathed feiftiU tie 
yearmix^tcry to Heaven to > be pardoned hifi share of the (|>aBfi. >\'Ufi 
Th)(imas^i in: hi^i changed condition, oould.look dQWiiiupaiiil£m^iiotil( 
with his loving eyes, his ever-forgiving spirit, he would knowf-Jiftlt^ 
bitter mndgenuiiuEi, how full of anguish^ were these i^^^gvetjB! ii< .i I ' 

I George leaned his ];ead on ; tiaiO/ sidei >of j the -. windQWi (bo* sEtLbdjiA tUfl^ 
emotion^ to gather the outward calmnees that maa .Uk;^ notftQ hfOiftr 
ruffled /befbite ; he listeoaed to the dtrokes oJFttW pnasiiigblKfi^ 
ri^ingudutaofthavply iathe still; night w^; ^ndie?^yMPpMat^ jitroJECic 
wftgtlfeden with its weight of pain. ,, , .... ...i; . vua' 

til -•"« -i -vi'.b -'ii . »<•; /I...- -,:,u ■'. ',,1 ■;>';'_' h .?.\-iTi,«i«ij' ij.i u>'- "^C 

*'»j'Uj1' ' ? ' '-u'fl .." -'-^i-il-l.t M/t'; ..,: j.iy :-■ i •' J-"' i- )',ii'i-i !-'• nil' 4". 
-.'^) /(ij;.',i .l;.f/< , /';^ii:rfT.-, Mi \.i:, > ,1- nl-' .n- iT.-.i// .?-.f.:') til >l'..;ti iinV 
}ij ( T hr>ii'-j\i:-,i )j >b'.,,i- j.. .{ :n, • .. ■.'■ *'. !•■ la 'ji-.f 'I-.M'JC ''t '}" •-. I'.i.'^i'^TI 

.Ln'.Mli '/ ,in\t ii«-|ir ,|')»;,M|-: in. ;.ii i <t i.: .,- - . i\ i j.t r, ,v ...i /)^*7i '».in'. ll' 

X \/\lnnr,i\* i nI ^llnrn'r-lintil i)> >: •.■>iff.- ,;i'.-«'^| • -..^^t. •:>*'> i-**: 
'-^Tiitil i'.- n»,i7irtttf»'U.ntti; <■•■■<, .J /^Vi'j ' ..>■ -■::!• i,...i.ji 'lu*// iH"-'? 

/<•)/» all 

C 291 ) 

Ffejuqry^ r fuflfei yf«kg('.oq|i>3i4ei^ iOne.i:>| t^ ijat^^t .fl!mial:ite>a^,89quiblei of , 
m^n, tiHi s^!W]en<;ynfc|iireQ,,ap4atrtbiai.«s^fti ag^^pf.f^tirefioo^pri <f^?fte vto Jiie,., 
related asiiOfl^/^itbfttwisqsjtN'i' Eroin: 1/726. .tp, 4 W9,i »<WlJ *hp,MsfW*p«Tjar 
everything throve in his hands, and^tiU f4!^<^ /l^ ltonag^qfliiriai9% bi|(:m,u^.! 
coptW€dreJ«aff^'di^atlifngi.*»d.fift foKibw rt^.j;i ^ilj '«»;./ il • 

T_We ar? tol<ljth«fcJFlewy'B qqadtinct in *^(d4«)c^0i.w Si^hf^p/pfiFir^jw?*.^ 
had beeni^f Wn^Yoleo/li^ i»gulary/a|adfex©tn(pt*ry,,aj5 jfefc>f nMx^i iwiveys^.f 
lo3!!eiaod xe^pect; and jrtia>ih^.wsasipoMfdiOUti,by!puWiqt,>Qjtti>i^ij^inQUos^ 
thnnibyt sosnti Court icafcals^ tO'^theiidyingt Grawd Monarq^Q^jja^ttl^ iprenl 
c^Qr&rhisiiiifiint gBcfat-g«attd«oii andisu^oessoor^.ilif^is th^ilflfteenthHi/ 

During the Regency, — to follow E^rlr Rtiiahopelft itataratii^fjjH^teuij^i- 
« Whayed with-sei>muebMpr(uietioeiand7cirouid8|^ as;jDflt) jBovoffieiild 
ei^erX>rle8i)^oriDilbQi^ :1 >he .pever ithmitttb timsieif iiiH;Q/Any St4il}9 ior Cow^ I 
mtrigueS|>and ooly^ aealouily idiseharg^di tbe> dqti^ lof >hi(t»laruat/).£rfl9d4}aUy| i 
hergained.iav a£6dlate''cbDtardl;xiwea:iithe'ihiftdid{ hisi pupiiyiai»d: lHrhe9:V> 
BouFbon camcL'tb [the(}ielin^ wadJdeEiired aivvays tioiassiflt aJiilt\utibonhretic§$ij 
of'':the Moma^chj^nd.tbe' Mioistek*. I .Nor twasibis, asQehdanoyiWeakeived b;^- 
ha t pupil?8 - inamage i; jfer 1 4)hel lyonng '• Que^,'; o£ > tiinid> i and [;8hrinkiiigi> 
tebper, jmd'zeidoKis cmly in<he]fid^vDtio0s^tookriii6i greattpttrt'in^politicaJi 
Flenvy wouldi probably liava^oiBid' mo diffiotiltydn to^moying ithe.Duto^ 
ofi^BdQrbaD>atian«barliev petiod^ botithotigbt itibftttoi tod^txdi^Oum^tanoesir 
wctk Soatfmti^ slndrlieiecaivied )dotyn (tbeii pv6pitioa8il;urilentTi>f^«^ 
* ^itne andil ac|ifDst/aiiy tWobbei«>%wa8ia favoiirit^isa^ii^iiif/tiio^crafiiyr 

Mafta'rilli-^ 1 'i Imfoa *'(» .ji(i'j>i ;;i!; yrj-w '1 ■-'-,/ -j ^.[.n ,^-j/:.> '^'iwui ^;!.l .iji/^' 

<* Fleury,!ithei^ref 'allowed tb^iattock to icomd Aromntbe'oppositftf 
qtititi&ti ' <BourbOKi^>^kit(rited; t6 dvair tlii'voun^K^eteii tQ)iii»^rty> c^ii^d 
nf^de a j[diQt ap^tclt^odi lo bis Majdiy, uinthe might tddn^ot} businessc 
Tv^htiii£'th0'y»tei^VebtioiilofJFleii)ry: i'Ool^mibgtli^ t;ab41,'Fd^ui^y^ sUtei 
of bis gpdntA^, Imt^ffecibg gt^i* t^e^kMsB, ' idok t^aive of tiid« King ^y^ 
letter, and retired to his country bouse at^ l^s|yb ^^ffbefe^Me^iifemained tor 
one day in apparent disgrace. But it was only for one day. Louis, in 
the utmost concern at his loss, gave positive orders to Bourbon to invite 
him back to Court, which the Minister did accordingly, with many ex- 
pressions of friendship and of wonder at his sudden retirement.f Yet 
in June, 1726, he was again combining an attack upon this valued friend, 
"when Fl^ry discovered and crushed him, and obtained, without difficulty, 
his dismissal from office andbaniahment to Chantilly.*'^ 

From which period dates the "justly famous administration of Fleury" 
— signalised by historians as a new era of peace and prosperity to 

• Si^le de Louis XIV., eh. iii. 

t Hor. Walpole to Lord Townshend, Dec 24, 1725, and Dudos, M^m., vol. iii. 
p. 364. 
t History of England, by Lord Mahon, vol. ii. p. 100 tq. Third edit. 


292 Cardinal Fleury. 

There is a passage in Mr. Carlyle's History of Frederick the Great, ia 
which the reader's attention is called to the year 1726, wherein Cardinal 
Fleury began his k>ng supremoay in the state ; ^ an aged revet^hd gentle- 
man, of sly, delicatdy cunning ways, and disliking war, as €^rge L SA^ 
unless when forced on him : now and henceforth, no m^iftting pt^wer 
more anxious than France to hame the ship in trim.''* Ten years lattir, 
tb9 same historiaii has to show us France^ after mbbKng'ft^s^«raI cen- 
turies, in^tbe act of swallowing" Lorraine whole. **CamiBb^ Fleury fiii# 
awallowed k whelew *■ That was^ what he meant iu pickii^ lAi^' quarrel f 
said Teutschian^ mournfully. Fleury was very pa^e, eimdid m aspe6(f 
t9 the Sea^Poweni smd' others; and^ did Bot crow afflmCitefy; did' not 'ntf 
what hd had mBant."t ....;...' •:, . 

It IS' of the Bilesism question, vexed by and resmg^ aH tfte-' Powers' hi 
1741, that Macanlay is treating when- he* remsrkv df th« GiiMilinP,' tfiMf 
the' voice of Fleury had always been for peace; that he hat^sLciMisbieitisii^jf 
and that. now; in extreme old age, he was unwilling*, afber li Hfb* '^wlncft)' 
when his situation was considened, must" be pronounced' S^gul^jpinl^- 
to« cany the fresh stain of a great crime before the tr£and of Bir 

Three* Cardinohi have reigned nr Ftance, observerMi KxfiSii&W&ixMfti 
-^Rich^ieuy Mazavin, Fleuiy. Thred Churbhmefr, thre^ 8tatesiil^.L 
With less or genius^ than the twO'fopmer, Fleury IM the ^t¥ of ^iiovi^yjl^ 
soffieieatimto the day and thedemandv thereof; and witho^tdKiTlirig'to 
tile axe, like Biehelieu, or to intrigue, like liiEdBanB, hie c^hiiiified' ralfi^ 
worii of isoklSng tihe crown by lowering the noblesse.' CiH^itaMd'Flei^ 
says this critiey was afraid of what he called a i^nigt^' k&toirifi^y''''m 
had no oentempt for fiutuM celebrity, but it was< not at a^ to' m' UihM'ttf^ 
be written = about by< his' contenvporaries: H'e liked^ akmei^ gn&%6M 
often repeat «a apophthegm of the ** Imitation^'* namely, /^ilii^ii^sdr^ 
— ~In his horror of' noise^ he wOuld have no goverhmeniid' sjjkhiM^SHt* 
round about him but simple commts. He dreaded irihovitbM,; SEiid^ satf ' 
liiat every newt idea Oontains within itself a ttmpe9^^^'*'fkfHrig^to secf^tliilt' 
the tempest forms the fertilising torrent'* It was hifef IH^f thaft'-MW" 
had bel9n- the vain of France',~««^Law, qui' attatt ^t§ le t(Ment f&M^ 
^parpillftnt des parcelles)' d^or lit oi!k i'or n'i^t jsmtan} 1>6utr.^''t^-Bttt ike' 
historian avows his sympathies to be doe to a Minister 'w^ii^tticithirf^ 
anddesignedfy kboured forthepeople oniV'^' who i«ad tli(7<$o%j[lelli'Mhe 
fteqnenUy than* Msohdavel^ and whosaid^ with PAbb(^ de'6k2at^FI^«HMP' 
your true soldiors are ifaey: who culDivalte thesml. - :.,.-.../ .. ^ 

**B3st if he was* right in his relation tb tfie pee^e^ b^ ^lnk^ 4mhfffk 
his relation to ^wer; k/r by dint of removii^ to a/ dietine^ fiok ft» 
throne all those menr who^ by.gettius, eharaeter, ei^ bdld^Md^ eteal^ 
pubKo opinibn^nrFnuooe,' public opinion' was lurnedf i^<^s>^bim^ «l^' 
ceased to accept his mot d*ordrefrom Versaille8."§ " • ■' ' •■'' ■ ' '"' 
-One of Sir Bulwer Ly tton's traveled heroes- ie introduc e' d to a mauia 
a clerical garb, and of a benevolent and prepossessiiig 

* Carlyle, Hist of Fredk. tbie {Grrt.» vol i. book v^duuL. 
VeL iL book ix. cb. xl. 
Macadla/s Essay on Fredk. the Great 
LeKoi Voltaire^ LvLdu'siiir i- •;>. :. .;, 

Cardinal Fleury. 293 

the Bishop of Fr^jus, who receives hiot ^' with an air vefy imcommon to 
his couutrymen," yiz:. with an ease that seemed to result from real gocMJf 
nature, rather than artificial grace.. Fleury had at this time jost left' hU 
hiahopric, winch he w^is supposed to hate with a genuine hatred, sigpiiogt 
himself ii^ a letter to Caniinal Quirini, <*Fleuri, 6v^ue de Fr^'ue {^ar 
I'iodignation dtyinei" ^The kiog does not like him teaeh^-' « fiup 
politician 19 made to say ; '^but he is a good man^oh the wbr^e, thougib 
j^uitieal.'' In Fleury's interview with Devereuz, the good hisbop taksi^ 
especial ps^xus to, keep cliear of French politics* He asks hini, howewr^ 
tnro or diree questions about the state of parties in; England-^-oibotif^ 
finance and: th^ natioaal debt — about Ormond- todl Oxford ;>ted>appeav# 
to g^ve the closest attention to the young Englishman's leplieiSi Tbefeir 
politician ^oriesaid, M94ame de Bak&ae>. breaks out, during this eolbqiily^^ 
into ocqa^ipnal sarcasms against theJesuits^ which have ndtlhing to ^ifi 
with, the 8ubjeqt9 in question^ and at which he smiles onoe oi! twice. '^ Afap 
nwcher^ couspi^j^^ said he, >^ you flatter me by showing that/ you iike iaen 
not as the pojiti^p, but the. -private reIation-*-not as the''£is*bop»d£* 
Fr^jus, hut as Andr^ de Fleuri.''^ lui a subsequent chapiter^ • Derereus! 
has ample time for conversation with the Bishop that was, Cardinal iksD 
Prime Ministei^ that ^should ^be,. and giveis a deliberate! estimate* of Bis 
ppirera. . To this: effeet^ That he oeiHiltinly hadiiii hisft ve^y little of' liie- 
great mfm, and uideed presented a. most striking instances of 'this tnitE^ 
*i that in diatrgame , of bonoura. wUeh . is play^ at. courts^ we ^obtaii»: sut^^ 
cw I^SB \i^ our talents thait/our' temperstf' After somei eiktaoty comvesut 
sa^ion on* work^ ef fietaon> and on Hterattn*e io general; and. the varibii9/ 
diaracters of the Utevatl of the day^ Ftoury is described-byhistinteilsoutQF'? 
as artfully gliding inta a discussion on statistics and polUicfl^' whieh affoidri 
tW lattec: a sudden,, b(at thorough^ insight< linto the <deptha 06 his policyui 
'^'I saw vthat)\ while* he: affected to -be indifferent 4a <^' difficulties simb 
pus^les.of ;8taite^"he lost-QO opportunitiyi of gaiilingeve^> particle efinfib— 
nation i?espectiag them;andithatlhe made conversation^ iofivirhii^he'was'i 
skilled, a vehicle ibr acquuring thsit knowl^ge^which he-iiad/not the/forcd^ 
o( ^lind to create iaopkhis own intelleoti er to woric oUt^firoav the trni/iflitfd 
lai>09|;s: of others., ! If ^ iim < made him: a) superficial ttsltesmaiB, ^lA mada hinui 
a^ prompt ofne ;' and rthere wasr never to Itickf <&- mxiuster ^witb so litd^' ' 
tspfuble ,ta himself.rt .;! \^ . • : m-!. ■■^' • ■ '■ ]■<•.> -ui rn> ,\ ■ '>■•-. t^itl 
. ^hmi .^e diedr at. ^ beginning of 1743-^ in the ninetietfa) jrear of Usr^ 
age^ Fleui^ left.1^e,chaifs»ter dhaidng governed Franoadmidg a pei^adf) 
Off seventeen years with ttha tnost u^lfighb disintetcstedness and' ui»<^^ 
Ueinishe4.iBtc^n|^ ;. though better ^alculatedi tO' superintQBd> 4ha i^sgtiht- 
tians of peace than to direet tha operations o^ war; for b>jr<his<atttistioiiif 
to the fecovevy.of :the financesi^he had- ^pesed himself ito=) the c^iisuiO'oK 
Sfffferipg^ the. Bnaf}nis.,tar<fEiU.' into dso|V)r, and of repe^ftsiDg ihe asilitai^jr] 
aidour of the nation.^ -" ■'' :>•• •'' •« '-■■■'■ v-^- -.;l ' i-r.-.- ^ 1 .'..2^0 

* Derereuati 'book tyi'ch.'fr.' ■;■•'• • '- •■''' • •••• ■'• "''• ^ '■■■.'•":•■ ■ "•I'-' c 
t At his death af^peared the followmg punoiog epigram: 

^*He flowered without fruit, and faded without aregiet.'^—Ibidiy'Chl^Til 
% Coxe, Hist, of House of Austria, vok iiL cfe <im < ' : ^ I 

294 Cardinal Fhury. ^ 

. ^tttiy't Bd ministration has been epokeu of as pretty nearly correspond- 
iUeonA tbftb of Walpola in its diu-^on ajid its polii^y ; though tliere vras 
^fieranM'enough in the character and motives of the twp leaders. It 
eoiwnqiioed f>roperly, a» a sole ministry, on the susmiary di^mtssal of the 
Duk0' of I bourbon from power, when that gratidee could not, be imJuced 
fail Sbidamith ill the '■ i-essonable limits". marked out for him by Fleurj. 
y>H«iwouldliave all or none; and the. latter portion accordio^'ly became 
Us'^acefrftiid the i'ormer the share of the Cardinal.". The period of 
fileiiny't^de&fch has been taken as a point at which to separate th^ reiga 
of' iLawis, itlK. Fifteenth into two great divisions.* . Awl though, as 3 
uiatteD of .«oiiveuietice, there may be no obj^ctiou to thia arrangement, 
whtckiidivides tlie time equally — the 6tet half, at (i broad vieir, appeariug 
pe>caM,olib& second warlike, — yet a ini$take,to .suppqse.thst 
" the loai of thia statesman, turned the.ourrent of tilings,!' or again,. thai] 
Ifaer.a^tdnsioti evea of iik long life, fro^ti the. uouage)iai^ian to tho. cenjte- 
BuriaauU^e^ tvould have averted much of what followed. For jt is.dei^r 
that the death of Fieury was no such signal for changes a^, t}ve Eillof 
Wolaey or the disgrace of Clarendon. " All the elements of political, 
and social, a-nd religious disorgauiiation liad developed, themselves, and 
were at work duriny his lifetime. He saw his country plunged into 
wars; he saw his king plunged Into debauchery; hs saw the people 
plunged into infidelity. Yersaill^s In 1740 .differed onl^^ in degree from 
Versailles in 1760. Mftdarae.,de .Ppnipadour was at leapt as respectable 
as Ha^ame du Sfailly. The Parisian coteries were in full operation. 
TBe'wiWt'tr Voltaire^poeiiis had appaared ;■ ■ nwd a moreinfamom winter 
fV^'tHktt Ncr,''tK4i'Y)h^^fiil' Ilb'-Mtittwe,'«W-tfaritiae](ui4<bublii6iD^iia 
•i^'Hkh-a Pldn^- '.'■■ •■■■■ "" 'I'^i'i ^'■.i> ■...,>,.,...,.,) ,..-. ., y, Wj 
''"Thte'C4Hihtit'Bi«'di--1!M);'«MlJ4ttbM Wtty l*(rpp<»^itIrat,flwJ»oBiI 
re«drW6^'% Hd^wlllr 'ttiidgd, itBd:'AllyTemsc»ifbr'«ai)thl^itDiii^irnM 
lflta^l^^''tf^'etia'6f tft«'wi>fld'n*aa^W3tig, tii^i^^f r^Theio^y^tniBUa 
'■Hfim Ma Alityet'a^Mil-'li>er^'tttode'bf:'fioaiH:eJ" lR'.flfeu^as itim^lkhi 
1^1^'l^d'be^'b^t vleH^itiy'^^tt^tftgMtj'BtidiittM wamitiBdi'net'^r^ib^ 
jiiifl rdi';^'.m'g^li^!ti'^fetesiM*io'lla*'»m(tv«Aidll^**»lrMs(iOppMBrife 
^^ditit;''h^''l«ff k''Hi!h''rdi'^(t40'^thobt'b%aithetiK:Jnis-ibxji(nib.i^k>tf 
*BlcH''part"ali rtaU'''defeW,-^kna'*«d>pob#;''lAiiioble.«iiMiwJi«ijjifiM(4 
Mfcutet'b>F'Ffftlltylfl't*ie'ei^htefeBtti'i!eitttty.^"$'. -.'■i.i ■',! I.:,;!,,; nu./tU 
("JlSiSVaSTii! Hbliilaye ^ckonr'iV'Bitftm^ ike^tbiiioB^ cocitnatSJoEllUc 

Madame de Fomnadour. In the case of the Cardinal,. ha^lspy^-Aibliifl 

'Ml^tbd' Mot«t:ted'Uie 'ihr6lt«"d^aJntt She' [»MiiEniettt»V n'.iifastlaf^ilia 
'STil^Ul^l un'doJWpfay''iv&»"adHACidg-^fk<om bla4ei'loi«ar>ahd>ib>'lfuli«Bf 
Ili'flft'^ai-Jii^'ftM i6'}x 4'^Wubltfilo «I*!f^ Md.^pAriianMiit-iR fiwm i.Tffi 
,,CaVfi(|iit WV t!l(Ae^iJste^'ti^' t^W-'iDtondiMt'}- the .ItfKeltaiae'dKMded.hatiaif 
|rdaf^T'^ WwiBt^9s;'HayMg"thtlltld(mfe>'0<igh^ta aoiy'fibtik..tia|l^)tdffi' 
TrlTullitt^Mh dha-hlgh-tid<tlMe H gtiiMroUBTivpr to^penuMfteitbe/BtBO. 
:TlJe "C^df^al pits jbdefa hoatik'-tb 'Austril'aifd wUl-^apued MwuA 

f See tbe Car^n^V^vii words, quoted f^m. Baiidu|tl'«"fit^ li^'^d^MfK 
"t'EngtfeeTiV'l'te FaUofttteU'eauitf. . , ,•,'"'.' .''.";', '■■ '' '" ';; 

^ Cardiaal Fhury. 295 

Frassiti; the MarqtiiSe 'w^irt to Wlr with FVaderiak- topleue Aftlria 
^eresit;* 'Obe verf ^atadvantngfrof ^IlMirf's adtnttiisteatK'ii'iaJH^ir 
eiaid toh^Mbe^ii itS^suInlStV^'bfeinhBdlns teienti bedcJMa,'>t^ natibb 
iniuld still hte^ teap^'the Uecje€t-.eF-utiit}'Wid'uflifohiii({yiaStB gioMsaf 
nd^rit; '""Hk'^«at^'6f'ofiibe'V?r6'iimTlr twenty. " Fdv/iof-^hidisuiBcmiQei 
raledatoi^Ga tfenCh'pai^ of th«'fiin^.' > 'fietWeenltie'yeMk'1756«adili63 
"^j^eat^ re<(tifriil^"the Atmoit ' bUiKl^ and maaagemieDt'-^tliSita'werelkio 
fesff' than: tw^Atyfifc tJifCtifrtera In'the^ms di^rtmetita.'Irf f ]daiiy)» tegtH 
tW nation "Oiiy 'hate' 'fell "fdr ie ■vieiilard arniititmt ef^dteoaspaeif'A 
ydtaii^'^la Mm',]:— -ttKirtghdiie^Ting elsewhere at<Hi(iEmnMne»«sioite 
"MiM't 1^ ' di^abt^re 'UtAt d«'«rDilre"loutenir'de' gTande8<«hoseB> panda 
^^ts 'tttoyea»/'§ 'and' therelbre' ad^t«d to^ating^ ww^s iic wat^'vnd! edw 
DoijilUjftgl'MbeDl'he^initd tiaVe been «p^-hftiideds oamitiBg the bmtitoq 
Rteral]y^^,'BS''««U''tla 'befi!n«,"waF')jad«ammenoeclli'''. '' 'i •'■ --'^ -h ■■ 
"'Emiaeiitl^ tioft prt-^Tninently Hil'Eiiiliiance'wIiaia Miaister-oE'Pkaoit 
^s'subh'hi'u pai^egvrised, Dflyin plain tennsadoredi^ibiJfBj'J^steeu's 
. 0dle-^oP<a(*r^-''-' ■■■ ']■'-'■ ^'■■- '■■■ ■■ "- -i ..,,ii,;.:, mIi .,,,ii 
;"'" ■'■"■' "■ ''i'tyiiiimuiiatreadorfil'ti^ii^fcWiidetitt''''' *"'^ ""' Y-«l-V^ 

iirril HI. J 1 Va se vCKF-encMloer dun ctCTnd Jien: 'i " , " . ' , 
I , ^ C'ealiiVotr(!Wiih'elir'4vTT'ii6iife4(^aa'iK^ """ l'-J""'l 

i''iVU1emam'lenMrlEiofiSaint+£tPi7e|»i^'^aixj?^efi(e^ ]t(i^t^t,fa.tM 
onlgri4iiie«lf<Uiat,ati«iuiau«iAltb3'i,,p)aae'wi)ich,)^ pot (orgptte;n n9if,;jafla 
that it ia easy to suppose tliis plan was not very ihtk^ipg -^ jQflj^^ijW 
ffie)tty|,'thati.Miaiaufjid'bamettrifo5t jiBfiiSqw.ff^d^pjt^i^fd^^S^^ 
fan indi.wihicli, at .£!ighty.-nJpe,yq9ra.o£^e ^fwae^ l^mCBW^S-JT 
Shb iiriiiiBler,.iays Birtmbe,)iHdolWer,afi3s.finpua^ tp,^d.hi»,dsy.^|t33fff 
^Uynin'-tiift.bflsoBl of,poiwflr,;but »ot, aUeHgtlf, eoiCfu^lf, fl^pf ,f^^;- 
BJefatednesS'eaaiight ttt geioi])!6,dvwatiQii,^Q^hQ[f|ftipt? 9^^^,■^^f!W^^?^ 
telose.without'disturbaiioaor.dafwit. itHiB.bflbit.p^imin^Taqlie^ifaiL-^eUiDi 
foi«fflgi»t,«-taieoBimoiidefect>iD.eT;trfmfB,pldaaB.,(,W;ti^ Ipp, oij^_& ref i^ 
a favour aaked by the Aljb6,de(Benii«,Jnj*bf«B,,upgrapifiW.^effinft,"Xft? 
abalbiiaTerbava i^dailoagM I am 8li|«e,"w'H c^fvwftifti' ^ft9,JW J'P?"S 
inM't.refiljr^^rlBndinat-Kiaiiy^iyflMs J«ter,ti}at,ji«nng,fljjafl y[|^., (y,, (j(ip 
aiibisteyiplaat. '....,!,,,' i ^ ' " 

s'tiMiiBartJeut dascribaafUMf Jong government of " the sage and geotje 
imtofciof thd.flocfc;«f..Fr4jll8l' ftBiteelf under the sway of two iufluenqea. 
JDit'o men) oe' ana :t(tU,: shared with the Cardinal bia authority over the 
't(aaliiitdf£'«aIicey^>''^P*dBt, 'blseanfe^soF, and Barjac, his valet de chambrq. 
^h»'spnfiafi Fbkt'M zealrlj^aaid to have pushed on tb& timid ambition of 
fteury^'faiaipenitantt'ta power; sure, if Fleury were once minister, that 
liev>4hc deateiMbalJaauLtiaiid'impiacabte persecutor, could coustraui bim 
-toJJieaBryicefiLbis.ilPsiety's cause^ Aa for the valet, the bidden ways 

B J. B. EonMeau. Ode 1l U Paix. % ViUemaip, aWeau.dn X;yni'BBde. 

" Barante, De la Lltt^ratore Fnuisiifc"'^'"^"^ "'^^^ ^/-x.flTiJ j 

296 • Cardinal Fleury. ^ 

by TfLich he Iiad attained to favour were more obscuf^. *^ Tlie Cardind 
IukL had weakaeweg in his youth ; and Barjac wad then His confidant. 
Siooe then he had grown grealt, like his tnaster-^and in ia respectfti 
intimaey with his master. To hiiti, nothing that was decided in the 
oouDoil touching^ war, finanoes, or the church, wa6 a 'seeret.^ ' Hb had Ins 
share of the Cardinal's hat and ministry. 'We are wilting to Rome;'-^ 
<We are seading B'Antin on it mission^' — * We received Villard' ;*—4e 
wfmld say."* But this is only what the modem viilet and latter-day 
Jbames are also in the habit of eaying, — the We of fiimiHar fluinkeyifliDi 
being as seooghised a fact as the We of a fashionable doctor, blrihe Wi6 
q£ an Able E£tor. And perhaps the French love of effect^, jbnii a greeSl 
fer biographical parallels and paradoxes, may have m6re than a' little 
exaggerated die iafluence of Father Folet over the Cardinal-lMlhister,-^ 
with a semi-conscious or sub-conscious view to strengthen his analogy ta 
Biohelieu, by providing him with an analogue to th(U Cardiiifil-llinistei^^ 
Father Joseph. 

M. de Tocqueville, who ascribes to Fleurv " gp^at powers '<>f wit and 
fascination," yet assigns to him a matter-of-fact and lucid miiid, utteflj 
devoid of warmth and elevation ; says that he was keen and subtle even 
to knavery ; that his economy degenerated to penuriouisiies^ ; and that 
his resentments were implacable. And thei^ adds, that his hand bore 
heavily on the Japsenists, whose opinions differed in soitie points &om 
his own ; while its touch was light for the men without faith, who were ' 
beginning to propagate incredulity. 

Lord Brougham speaks of the ** habitual insincerity and deep cunning 
of Fleury.'^t One might think there was the same irony in Pope's" 
eulogy of " honest FJeury" as the reader of "Shaikspeare feels^ though 
Othello did not feel it, at the Moor's iterated praise of *^ honest, honest 
lago.^ But Pope' was seemingly all seriousness and' sihcerity in his 
reference to the Cardinal as a Minister whom no (>didu^ cbtnparisoia 
could affect : 

Sejanus, Wolsey, hurt not honest Fleury, ' 
Bat well may put some statesmen in a fory.^ 

And history, by the pen of some of its best-informed and .leaab-paitiai 
scholars, goes far to justify the personal epithet. Earl Stai:ihopte, for ooe^ 
bears record, that during his whole government Fleury sought no riche